


How to Win Votes and Alienate People

by TobermorianSass



Series: On-dits from the lives of the rich and the obscure [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cameos, F/M, M/M, Original Character(s), Politics, Satire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:06:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3915721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/pseuds/TobermorianSass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chronicle of the events of the 2019 elections in Magical Britain, in which duels were fought, a lot of tough questions were asked, all the candidates had their sex lives thoroughly examined by the popular press (to the delight of Luna Lovegood and the dismay of the other three candidates), Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had a falling out over the Rotfang Conspiracy, Lucian Bole accidentally alienated literally everyone in Britain, Zacharias Smith and Draco Malfoy interfered in everyone's business and the magical press had a field day. </p><p>In short, business as usual, in wizarding politics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which the battle lines are drawn

**Author's Note:**

> I am still very distraught that Red Ed lost the election, this is my attempt at a fix-it fic.

“Weasley’s resigning,” said Blythely, flipping idly through the pages of that week’s mock-up of The Wixenomist.

“Oh?” Zacharias Smith looked up from where he and Mafalda were _unofficially_ comparing the merits and demerits of the various cartoons their illustrationist had drawn up for the week, “I’d have thought he’d run at least once more.”

“Percy Weasley is a family man,” Blythely said drily, with all his distaste for family life and its interference with the political infused in that one sentence.

“Hmmm,” said Zacharias thoughtfully, making Mafalda look sharply at him.

“What are you planning?” she demanded.

“Can’t a man think around here without being accused of planning bloody murder?”

Blythely placed the mock-up carefully on the table, “Whatever it is you’re planning to do,” he said evenly, “Remember that you _are_ the Finance Editor of this magazine and anything else you choose to do happens _entirely_ on your own time.”

* * *

“Percy Weasley’s resigning,” Zacharias said, later that evening, watching Justin dry the dishes and put them away.

“Is he? I had _no_ _idea_ ,” said Justin, “Despite the fact, you know, that we work in the same office and that I've been his advisor for five years.”

“No need to get your wand all in a knot,” Zacharias idly drummed an indistinguishable rhythm on the glass panel-table, “What are you going to do about it?”

“Do?”

“Do as in, an action you propose to take in response to his resignation,” Zacharias replied patiently, “As in –“

“No,” said Justin firmly, “Absolutely not. I’m not doing it.”

 “ _Justin_ –“

“ _No_.”

* * *

Three days later and a few streets down, in a flat on St James Street, Miles Bletchley picked nervously at the sleeves of his robes as Lucian Bole frowned thoughtfully at a blank spot on the wall.

“You think I should run for Minister?” he asked Miles.

“I can’t think of a better time,” Miles replied, “There’s no strong contenders for the position now that Granger-Weasley’s declared she isn’t going to run. There’s no real suitable pureblood candidate, which gives you the entire pureblood vote.”

“Hmmm,” said Lucian, “I’d need someone to run the campaign for me.”

“Oh,” replied Miles, before Lucian could make the obvious suggestion, “Young Montague’s quite keen on handling the campaign.”

Lucian sniffed.

“Family owns fifty-one per cent of the _Sol_ ’s shares,” Miles added, rather too casually.

Lucian raised his eyebrows.

* * *

“ _That wanker_ ,” Justin exclaimed, dropping his oats on his freshly pressed robes in surprise at the headlines staring up at him, “Bloody hell.”

“Language, dear,” said Ruth Smith-Finch-Fletchley slyly, in an excellent imitation of her father as Justin vanished the oats from his robes.

“Brat,” said Zacharias affectionately, “Don’t talk to your father like that.”

“But he said a bad word!” she protested.

“And that’s very bad of him, eat your oats and we’ll make him tell us what’s troubling him.”

Ruth glared at him and truculently shoved her oats around her bowl with her spoon.

“Well?” Zacharias asked Justin.

Justin shut the paper, folded it carefully and put it aside before answering, “Lucian’s running for Minister for Magic.”

“Really,” said Zacharias, much too calmly for someone to whom the news should have come as a shock.

Justin frowned at this, “Did you know about this?”

“Me?” Zacharias scoffed, “You’re the one with the paper, Justin.”

“Hmmm,” said Justin, suspiciously, and glared angrily at The Prophet.

“Who’s Lucian?” Ruth asked, curiosity finally getting the better of her.

Zacharias neatly cut Justin off before he could say what he wanted to say, “He’s a rotten egg and did all kinds of horrible things to your father when he was still working at the Ministry, probably also take us back to You-Know-Who’s –”

“ – Voldemort’s –“

“ – time with the way he is about purebloods. He also stole some money from the Ministry."

Ruth gasped in shock while Justin muttered, "It was never  _proven_ ," underneath his breath.

"They kicked him out because of that and because he called your father the M word," Zacharias continued, "So you can see what a rotter he is."

"He's  _evil_ ," breathed Ruth, the figure of Lucian Bole taking on a sinister shape in her fertile imagination, "Daddy you must stop him!"

"I can't do anything," said Zacharias sadly, toying at his breakfast, "Now if -"

“I’m going to run,” Justin interrupted him, with an air of determination that was peculiarly Hufflepuff about him.

“Just because it’s Bole? Isn’t that being a little petty?” Zacharias asked him, suddenly fascinated by the way the oats floated around his bowl.

Ruth munched on her oats thoughtfully, “I think it’s a good idea,” she said through her mouthful, “Because daddy’s good and then everyone will see what a horrible man Lucian is.”

“You see,” said Justin, triumphantly, “Even Ruth thinks so. I’m running.”

Zacharias shrugged, “If you feel up to it.”

“Be nice to daddy,” said Ruth firmly, “He’ll be a very nice Minister.”

“Thank you dear. I’m more than up to it,” Justin floated his empty bowl over to the sink and picked up his briefcase, “And you’re going to run the campaign for me.”

Zacharias Smith waited until Justin was out the door before hi-fiving his daughter.

“Do I get an ice cream now?” she demanded.

“Two ice-creams,” he promised, kissing the top of her head, “For that stellar performance.”

* * *

“I think I might run,” said Luna dreamily, as she and Rolf sat together on their porch, savouring that quiet half an hour before the twins woke up and the house was filled with explosions and other kinds of desultory excitement.

“They already have two candidates,” he said, resting his head on her shoulder.

“It’s important for magical Britain to have an independent, non-Ministry affiliated figure they can back,” she said, “Besides, someone has to warn them about the nargles and the Rotfang Conspiracy.”

“You’re quite right of course,” he replied, “And magical creature rights?”

“And magical creature rights,” she agreed.

“Good,” he said, “I’d vote for that.”

“Well of course you would,” she replied serenely, “You aren’t confused by the wrackspurts.”

* * *

“Right,” said Zacharias Smith, unrolling a map of the British Isles and placing it on the table, “Here we are.”

The four of them looked at the map, expecting, at any moment, for it to reveal some kind of information that would explain just _why_ Zacharias Smith found it unnecessary to explain it to them.

“Where are we?” Euan Abercrombie inquired politely, when it was clear that no explanation was forthcoming.

“Ah,” the bright smile on Zacharias’ face never wavered, “Yes. This is a map. Of Britain.”

“Amazing,” Dennis muttered underneath his breath as Dean Thomas added, “And Northern Ireland.”

“And Northern Ireland,” added Smith and then looked expectantly at everyone else.

“Yes dear,” said Mafalda patiently, “We’re not _dull_. What do you want us to do with it?”

“Do you have a manifesto?” Dennis inquired, “You’ll need a manifesto if you’re going to run a campaign.”

The smile on Zacharias’ face grew rather more strained.

(“What’s your manifesto?” he asked Justin.

“ _Manifesto_ ,” Justin repeated, with all the disdain of an aristocrat being asked to contemplate the possibility of an existence fuelled by hard work.

“The thing you stand for. What makes you uniquely you. Why people should vote for you over Lucian,” said Zacharias.

“I know what it is,” Justin replied coldly, “I should think the answer was obvious to anyone. Lucian’s an _arsehole_.”

Zacharias sighed, “It’s obvious to _you_ and it’s obvious to me, but it isn’t obvious to members of the general public, especially not if they have incomes of twenty thousand galleons a year and live in giant mansions in the countryside. So,” he paused, “What’s your manifesto?”

Justin thought about this for a moment, “A fair society?” he said cautiously at first and then, his brow smoothed out and he nodded slightly to himself, “A fair society.”

“For whom?” Zacharias asked him.

“Everyone,” Justin replied as though this was the most obvious thing in the world.)

“We need a plan of _attack_ if we’re going to run this campaign,” he replied.

“No,” said Mafalda, “We need a plan of attack _and_ a manifesto if we’re going to run this campaign.”

“Are you _sure_ you have a manifesto?” Dean Thomas asked him, “Because we can’t really run an election campaign if we don’t know what we’re fighting for.”

“He _doesn’t_ have a manifesto,” Dennis declared triumphantly.

“We do have one,” Zacharias said crossly, “But we need a plan of attack _more_.”

“Well go on then,” said Mafalda, “Let’s hear this manifesto of yours.”

Through gritted teeth and with a pained expression on his face, he repeated Justin’s words.

Mafalda Prewett began giggling uncontrollably, while Dean Thomas and Dennis Creevey simply stared at Zacharias Smith in incredulous horror. Only Euan Abercrombie seemed unmoved by the manifesto. Zacharias rather fancied that this was because he was the youngest person in the room and thus, still untarnished by the requisite amount of cynicism needed for a successful career in either journalism or politics.

Neither was Justin, but that was neither here nor there.

“I like it,” said Euan.

“You’re joking, right?” said Mafalda, forcing herself to breathe calmly, “You’re pulling my leg. You’re going to stop dicking around and tell us what the manifesto really is and it’s not going to be ‘a fair society’.”

“Nope,” Zacharias replied, “That’s it. And well ‘we hate Lucian Bole’ but that’s more. Unofficial.”

“ _Bloody Merlin_ ,” she breathed, “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with it,” said Euan, to no one in particular.

“We’re fucked,” Dean declared cheerfully.

“ _Fucking Hufflepuffs_ ,” said Dennis, running his hand through his hair.

* * *

“Congratulations Lucian,” Draco said vaguely, petting the crup pawing at his leg, “You running for Minister. It’ll make a nice change from Gringotts.”

Lucian’s ingratiating smile grew strained, but he persevered nonetheless. Draco Malfoy was rarely ever aware that he was insulting people in ordinary conversation and his carefully crafted insults were almost always far more crude and in many ways gentler than his accidental ones, but it would never do to insult him in kind. Draco could be very sensitive about that. A childhood problem, as Lucian was well aware.

“I imagine it would be a nice change for Britain as well,” he said, delicately.

“Oh?” Draco straightened up and left the crup to frolic by itself, aware that they had now ventured into the realm of politics with a capital P, “It would certainly be _different_ ,” he said cautiously.

“Yes,” said Lucian, “I’m a strong believer in firm government. We’ve been making far too many concessions to various,” he sniffed, “Interest groups.”

“You mean magical creatures,” said Draco drily, “Those,” his nose wrinkled in distaste, “Vampires and such. My father would have never stood for it.”

Lucian allowed himself a confidential smile, “Between you and me, I rather think we’ve abandoned the reins of this country to them and the,” he lowered his voice, “ _mudbloods_.”

He missed the way Draco’s left hand twitched involuntarily, “It is unfortunate,” he agreed, “But given the circumstances –“

“Given the circumstances, if I had been Minister at the time, or indeed the past few years, as I _should_ have, we would not have come to the brink of civil war and I certainly would not have made so many concessions to our _safety_ and the _well-being_ of our kind.”

“The murders were abominable,” Draco replied, thoughtfully, “One can’t even set foot in Knockturn Alley anymore, without running into those _vermin_.”

“If I become Minister, you can be certain that such _dangerous_ criminals won’t be allowed to roam free on the streets. “

 “I imagine you’ve considered the fact that most of the DMLE is controlled by Gryffindorks,” said Draco.

“I think they’ll find that I can prove to be just as difficult as them,” Lucian replied.

 “I’d hope so,” Draco said all too innocently, “I’d hope those years at Gringotts proved useful for something – obstinacy, learning the dangers of fraud and embezzlement,” he smiled dazzlingly at Lucian, “I’d be embarrassed if they weren’t, wouldn’t you?”

On the other hand, Lucian thought, strangling Draco Malfoy wasn’t an entirely unattractive proposition.

* * *

“A fair society,” Blythely repeated blankly, “You’re asking me for socioeconomic and political advice for a fair society.”

“As unhinged as that might sound, yes,” replied Zacharias.

Augustus Blythely pinched the bridge of his nose and reached for the bottle of whiskey he kept stashed away in his desk for when he had to deal with the idiocies of his underlings, “I need a drink,” he said, “But you,” he moved the bottle out of the way as Zacharias reached for it, “Need to be sober if you’re going to pull this off. I don’t know why you insist on throwing yourself in with this sort of crowd. Ridiculously idealistic and,” he sniffed in disgust, “ _naïve.”_

“He’s my husband,” said Zacharias shortly, “And it’s a damned good idea, it just needs a little shaping around the edges.”

“Do you realize how ridiculous he’s going to sound bleating that everywhere?” he nodded when Zacharias winced, “It’s far too vague.”

“I know that,” Zacharias scowled, “You know that. Justin –“ he paused and searched for the right words, “Just happens to have a very charitable –“

“Naïve.”

“- charitable,” Zacharias repeated, with some force, “Outlook on things in general. He genuinely _wants_ to do good.”

“And _clearly_ there’s no self-sacrifice, no heroic dramatics to this,” Augustus turned the glass around in his hand, absorbed in the way the light caught in the whiskey, “Not even though the announcement was made the day after Lucian made his.”

Zacharias was silent.

Misinterpreting his silence for assent, rather than _guilt_ – which if Blythely had known that it was Bletchley who had talked Bole into running for Minister, might have made him more suspicious and more willing to credit his Finance Editor with a sense of cunning – Blythely continued, “You realize this means you’ll have to singlehandedly talk the purebloods and the trading families into throwing their weight behind you.”

Zacharias rolled his eyes, “I _am_ the _Finance_ editor of this magazine.”

Blythely raised a single eyebrow and put the glass down on his desk and crossed his arms, “I don’t think you’re here for advice,” he announced and then raised both his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.

Zacharias suddenly found himself fascinated by the varnishing on Blythely’s oak desk, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t prevaricate, Smith.”

Zacharias Smith turned his attention to the sleeves of his robes, “You remember how you were dead set on Weasley winning the previous election because he knew what he was about and of course his policies aligned perfectly well with the ones we were advocating for the country? Well I was wondering, hypothetically speaking, if a similar candidate (ideologically speaking) came along again, who just so happened to be well acquainted with some of your, er, subordinates, would you throw your weight behind them – hypothetically speaking, of course – or would you consider it an unfair advantage of theirs?”

Blythely’s lips twitched ever so slightly, “Hypothetically speaking, of course, I would and would, therefore, demur from taking such an action – one must, after all, not use one’s unfair advantage to tamper with the due process of democracy and indirectly, the freedom of a nation,” he said gravely.

“Oh,” said Zacharias, vaguely disappointed, “Well then,” he got up to leave.

“However,” Blythely continued, serenely, “I am _also_ a Slytherin and Lucian’s always been such a _dreadful_ disappointment as a godson.”

“Thank –“

“ _Don’t_ make a hash of it, Smith,” said Blythely, “And don’t let Mafalda crow too loudly about it either.”

"I won't," said Zacharias. He paused in the door way and looked at Blythely, "One more thing -"

"No," said Blythely.

"Fabian Engels," Zacharias said warningly, "He's  _very_ keen on the position."

Augustus Blythely gritted his teeth, " _Xenophon_ will run as usual."

"Like clockwork," Zacharias promised him, "An editorial on your desk every Tuesday morning, proof-read and ready for -"

"Get out," snapped Blythely, reaching for his glass of whiskey.

* * *

“You’re mental,” said Ron without preamble.

“Luna’s my friend!” Harry replied, nettled at Ron’s comment, “I can’t _not_ support her!”

“Luna’s a very nice person, Harry,” said Hermione, “And a friend of ours too, but she isn’t exactly the right person to run the country and people will be looking to you as an example.”

 “Well you’re too late and I’ve already promised her,” he said.

“I can’t believe Ginny let you do this,” said Ron.

“I can hear you,” Ginny yelled from upstairs.

Harry grinned and pushed his spectacles, “Luna’s her friend too. I think you should really support her too, I thought you wanted to push for reform for magical creature rights,” he looked pointedly at Hermione.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance.

“So’s Finch-Fletchley,” said Ron, with some asperity, “And at least he doesn’t spend half his time spewing rubbish about the Rotfang Conspiracy and kacky snorckles or whatever it is is Luna’s latest fancy.”

Hermione placed her hand soothingly on her husband’s arm, “Anyway, Justin’s very interested in the new bill I’m proposing and intends to put his full weight behind it if he gets voted in and the whole crux of his campaign is a fairer society –“

“I mean if there’s anyone who can pull it off it’d have to be a ruddy Hufflepuff, those bastards just don’t know when to give up,” Ron added.

“ – which only leaves Luna with her absurd theories and as much as I love her, Harry, I really don’t see how I can back unproven, unscientific absurdities with a clear conscience –“

“Look mate, there’s a time and place for conspiracies and such but the Minister for Magic ent one of those places. She’d be bloody _miserable_.”

“So Ron and I are going to be supporting Justin,” Hermione finished, her chin jutting out defiantly.

“Well then,” said Harry, his head tilted in equal defiance.

“Well then,” said Hermione, crossing her arms.

* * *

“Darling that’s so dreadfully unfair of you,” drawled Pansy, over her gin and tonic, “I can’t possibly crucify poor old Bole he’s such a baa lamb.”

“That seems rather unfair to lambs,” replied Mafalda, “Anyway, I’m assured he’s more of a snake in the grass than a baa lamb.”

“Only because if there’s anyone more harmless than him it’s Justin,” said Pansy, “Really darling I’m so disappointed by these elections, the only person worth mentioning is Luna and that’s only because she makes a practice of believing six impossible things before breakfast on the reg. ‘Sides I’d be taking on Katie Montague.”

“What if you put Bole on the hot seat?” Mafalda asked her, pursing her lips thoughtfully, “He does have a checkered past, what with the whole embezzlement business – documents you have copies of. Even Katie would have a hard time explaining that one away.”

“You’re running Justin’s campaign aren’t you?” Pansy asked her, suddenly sitting up straight, “I should write about this. ‘Finch-Fletchley campaign manager attempts to strong-arm innocent member of the press into savaging opposing candidate’ now _that_ would be a scandal.”

Mafalda rolled her eyes, “Well if you don’t think you can take on Katie Montague,” she said delicately.

“I never said I couldn’t,” Pansy replied indignantly.

Mafalda grinned into her drink.

* * *

“No,” said Theodore Nott, “Go away.”

Draco sighed and followed Theodore as he ambled over to the next hoop. He was being very difficult, Draco mused, and making things unnecessarily hard for him.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“Because I like Venice and England is damp and cold,” Theodore replied, straightening up and leaning on his mallet, “Because we’re not eleven. Do you want me to continue?”

Draco glared at him, “Our fathers would have never stood for this.”

“Our fathers are also dead,” Theodore said mildly, “Go bully someone else, I’m too old for this and your hairline’s receding which means _you’re_ too old for this.”

Draco’s hand flew instinctively to his hair and it was only by exercising considerable self-restraint that he kept himself from touching his widow’s peak, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Theodore raised his eyebrows and then took aim with his mallet, “Twenty four years and you’re still as much of a playground bully as ever, Merlin’s sake Draco, grow up, you can’t strong arm everyone into getting your own way.”

“I’d hardly call this strong arming you.”

“Well then, talking obnoxiously at me. Trying to get me away from Venice so that you can have a ‘choice’ in this election, not _actually_ vote for me. Go bully Francis Fawley.”

 “Scared, Nott?”

Theodore looked up at Draco, annoyed, “No, I simply think you’re insufferable and would like to spend as little time in your vicinity as possible and possibly also finish my game of croquet, if you please and _no_ your father _won’t_ be able to hear about it.”

* * *

Zacharias Smith placed the file on the table in a threatening manner and looked squarely at Ernie Macmillan.

“Twenty years,” Zacharias said, tapping the file, “Sabotage this campaign in any way and I’ll publish every single thing in this file.”

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of sabotaging Justin’s campaign,” Ernie said loftily, “I don’t, for a moment, pretend to be any more virtuous than anyone else, but I believe that my actions should prove that I am _far above_ such _petty_ and _childish_ behaviour.”

“Hmmmm,” Zacharias said, sceptically, “If I catch even the _slightest_ whiff of an attempt at sabotage,” he leaned forward and lowered his voice ominously, “I’ll make sure you _never_ work again.”

Ernie refused to dignify this threat with a reply.

* * *

Graham Montague was an unexceptional man.  He had a sharp weaselly face and mousy brown hair, but was well-built, which only made him look entirely out of proportion. The only exciting thing that had ever happened to him was in his sixth year at Hogwarts, when the Weasley twins had unceremoniously shoved him into a Vanishing Cabinet – which had the unintended consequences of putting him out of action for the rest of the year, leading Draco Malfoy to the means by which the Death Eaters could be brought into Hogwarts and, indirectly, the founding of _The Sol_ by his father, who was irate at both sides of the establishment at the time. The incident had also left poor Montague with a lisp that made him sound like an affected fop and rendered his otherwise imposing presence risible.

It was _The Sol_ which elevated Graham Montague far above the ranks of his fellow Slytherins and made him one of the most important men in magical Britain. The paper appealed to those who disliked The Prophet’s tendency to fawn over those in power at any given time, were uninterested in the highbrow pretensions of The Wixenomist and thought The Quibbler’s fondness for conspiracy theories ridiculous. In short, it was the voice of magical Britain.

While his father was the one who owned its shares and it was his sister, Katie, who was editor-in-chief of the paper, there was no doubt in Lucian’s mind that like all Slytherins, the Montagues would close ranks around each other, when push came to shove, and would undoubtedly throw their weight behind their son, Graham. Who incidentally was also Lucian’s campaign manager.

He also had very set ideas about how to run the campaign and Lucian was slowly losing his temper.

“Look here,” said Graham, “Ith one thing for uth to write about Finch-Fletchley’th thlanderouth lieth but ith quite another to go about talking about it yourthelf.”

“I don’t see why not,” said Lucian shortly, “None of its true and they all deserve to know what sort of cad they’re getting in Finch-Fletchley.”

Graham rolled his eyes, “For one, it puth you on a backfoot becauthe you look like you have no real argumenth againtht hith polithieth, which you and I know ithn’t true – but _they_ don’t. For another, it maketh you look thelf-abthorbed and weak. Don’t do it.”

Lucian vowed silently to bring it up at the first opportunity.

* * *

Francis Fawley, a spindly tall man in his early-thirties with an unruly mop of curly straw-blonde hair, pushed his glasses up his long nose and blinked several times at Draco Malfoy, “You want _me_ to run for Minister for Magic?” he asked incredulously.

“Don’t you want to be Minister for Magic?” Draco asked him curiously, “Your sister’s going to be running the farm anyway. A career in politics might allow you to make some kind of mark in the world.”

“No, no,” Francis said hurriedly, blinking rapidly, “I’m just surprised that you want _me_ to run.”

“I think we should level the playing field, don’t you?” Draco asked him, “Make our own choices, rather than have choices made for us by others.”

Francis nodded, wisely deciding not to mention Draco’s infamous inability to make choices for himself in school, “Level the playing field,” he repeated.

“We need a moderate candidate,” said Draco, “An _independent_ candidate. But one of us. Someone who _really_ understands magical Britain.”

“Yes.”

“So you’ll run,” said Draco, and it was a statement of fact.

Francis nodded, “Only I don’t know much about politics,” he confessed.

“Oh that’s all right,” said Draco, “You talk about farming and when they ask you questions about other things, just repeat whatever I tell you,” and stuck his hand out in a way that brooked no objection.

Francis shook Draco’s hand, still too stunned by this sudden change in his fortune to object.

* * *

“Right,” said Zacharias, dumping a pile of books and parchments on the desk in Justin’s study, “Your job is to memorize all of this by the time we start making public appearances, which is two weeks from now.”

Justin stared at the pile of paperwork in horror, “What?”

Zacharias removed a large leatherbound book from the pile, “Borgin and Burke’s peerage,” he said, “Entries on all the notable families of magical Britain, along with their mottos, seats, current members, notable members – you know the entire deal.  Every pureblood kid learns this and you’ll need it if you’re going to win the pureblood vote, or at the very least, convince them that you’re a significant improvement over the last muggleborn Minister for Magic,” he removed another thick file from the pile, “The business families. You know Besillstun and Montgomery –“ Justin pulled a face, “But you don’t know the rest of them,” another file, this one twice as thick as the last, “Farming families. They control a huge chunk of the vote and have a lot of interests in the Ministry. They’ve also been fighting each other since the second wizarding war and you’ll need to know the details of all of these lawsuits so that you don’t put your foot in your mouth like Bole’s bound to do,” yet another file, this one slightly slimmer, “the brewing families – Ogdens, Campbells and Blishens – mostly all Scot, so Ernie will do most of the softening up there. They go hand in hand with the farming vote, but it’s a tenuous balance and you’ll have to remember which farming family is the flavour _du jour_. Of course, there’s a bunch of draft policies for mining and fishing which you’ll have to learn when you go to Scotland, but really it’s this,” he placed a sheaf of parchments, loosely bound together with a red ribbon, in front of Justin, “That will get you through this.”

“Um,” said Justin, still reeling from the information thrown at him.

“Ernie and I wrote it up for you,” said Zacharias, looking inordinately proud of himself, “A list of all the ongoing feuds and their causes between the various influential families of magical Britain.”

“I don’t see how it’s necessary –“

“The pureblood vote,” Zacharias replied, “You have to convince them you’re as good as one of them.  Lucian knows this. Francis Fawley doesn’t _know_ this, but he _has_ it _and_ he’s moderate; he’ll put them all at ease –“

“ _Fuck_ that,” Justin said with unexpected force.

Zacharias stopped mid-sentence and looked searchingly at Justin, “I don’t mean it that –“

“You _do_ ,” said Justin, “You _do_ mean it exactly like that.”

 Zacharias rubbed the side of his nose, “You have to bend the rules sometimes.”

“I’m _always_ going to make them uncomfortable,” Justin pointed out, “Your uncles don’t even like me.”

Zacharias fidgeted uncomfortably with the sleeves of his robes but could think of nothing to say to that.

“I’ll _learn_ it,” said Justin, relenting, “But I’m not going to _schmooze_.”

“You’re in _politics_ ,” Zacharias replied.

“I’ll be _tactful_ ,” Justin promised.

“Tactful is good,” said Zacharias, realizing that pushing Justin any further would only be counter-productive.

Justin placed the sheaf of parchments on the desk with the other papers, pulled his husband closer and kissed him, “You’re starting to remind me of my Aunt May.”

Zacharias grimaced, “I’m much nicer than her.”

“Mm,” Justin’s lips twitched, “But just as ambitious.”

“I’m not –" 

"And pushy."

" _Lies_ -"

“By the way,” Justin whispered in Zacharias’ ear, “Nice job getting Miles to push Lucian into running for Minister.”

He stood back and watched in satisfaction as Zacharias Smith turned a bright shade of red.

 


	2. In which battles are pitched and fought

Dear cos,

Congratulations on successfully bullying poor Francis into running for Minister for Magic. Does the poor lad know anything about politics, or is he simply your mouthpiece?

Wait, don’t answer that.

Have you taken up farming? Is that it? It must be it. Your father would be so proud. Ickle Draco finally tending to his vineyards instead of letting everyone else do his work for him. How much pruning did you have to do? Are you _part of the farming vote now_? Salazar’s bones, how things have changed, I feel so terribly old. Nott tells me you’re balding now, so I suppose you becoming a farmer was inevitable. One inevitably succumbs to these things. C’est la vie and all that.

Your Aged Elder,  
Corvus Lestrange

Ha bloody ha.

I’ll have you know that the Malfoy vintage has won the “Best Vintage” award for Britain and Ireland for ten years running.  Francis has a great deal of sense and is very quick on the uptake, which is more than can be said for Lucian Bole who seems to be under the impression that the best way to win votes is to insult everyone and make Pansy breathe fire and brimstone. Idiot.

Never let it be said that the Malfoys are _foolish_.

~~Also I’m not balding, Nott’s exaggerating.~~

Yours faithfully,  
Draco

Malfoy,

_I do not exaggerate_. I merely tell the truth as it is, tell him Blaise.

_It’s a terrible habit of his_ – Blaise.

Anyway, what’s bitten Pansy? Daph got an unintelligible letter from her the other day that seemed to consist entirely of swear words strung together in new and creative ways. With Bole’s name occasionally thrown in here and there for seasoning. Is Bole doing something stupid?

Don’t keep us in the dark,  
Teddy.

Nott,

Buy a copy of _The Prophet_ why don’t you? Some of us are Quite Busy shaping the future of magical Britain instead of wiling away our lives playing croquet and lounging the sun like Some People I Could Mention.

But since I’m feeling _magnanimous_ here’s a copy of the latest issue of _W!_

Yours faithfully,  
Draco.

**From:**   _W!_ on 10 October 2018.  
  


>   **SEX MANIAC: Finch-Fletchley not fit to govern, has sex on the brain says Lucian Bole**
> 
> Ministerial candidate Lucian Bole shocked last night at Appleby when he suggested that the only reason opposing candidate Justin Finch-Fletchley had made it so far was because he was “willing to get down on his knees for the press”. Luckily for him, neither Finch-Fletchley or his bulldog, Zacharias Smith, were around to respond to his not-so-veiled insinuations. We imagine there might have been fireworks, or at the very least, fisticuffs to liven up an otherwise drab affair characterized by the hysterical paranoid handwringing that seems to be at the heart of Mr Bole’s campaign for Minister.
> 
> When further asked to clarify Bole put his foot further in his mouth with this bold statement:
> 
> “I mean, I don’t mean to be disparaging, I suppose he can’t really help himself – everyone knows that the average homosexual has up to nearly ten thousand partners in their life time, it must be very distracting for him.”
> 
> Graham Montague, heir to the Montague Group media empire and campaign manager for Bole called the incident “regrettable” and says “the comments could have been better worded, though the whole incident has been blown completely out of proportion”. 
> 
> Wizarding LGBT rights groups such as Queer is Magical and MMOGAI have demanded an unreserved apology from Lucian Bole. Neither Finch-Fletchley or his campaign managers could be reached for comment.

**I. THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE**

**From:** _W!_ on 12 October 2018.

**SEX IS GOOD FOR YOU: War Hero Ron Weasley in defence of Finch-Fletchley**

Deputy Head of the Auror Division and former War Hero, Ron Weasley, and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Hermione Granger-Weasley have both come out in support of Justin Finch-Fletchley following Lucian Bole’s extraordinary remarks two days ago. In an exclusive interview with _W!_ , Hermione Granger-Weasley had this to say about Bole’s insults:

“He’s built his entire campaign on the claim that he was ‘persecuted’ by Justin while he was in office, which conveniently obscures the fact that he’s been out of office for five years and missed the worst part of the crisis – he’s stuck in a form of politics that has no relevance to today’s political milieu and you see it in his insults. They’re childish and completely unfair and born out of his own prejudice against muggleborns - I’ve had firsthand experience with the kind of prejudice Bole has against us, less so than Justin who had to work under him. He can’t disguise it, not even if he attempts to hide it behind his ‘persecution’.”

Meanwhile, Mr Weasley was a lot less circumspect in his response:

“Bole’s wrong,” he says, without hesitation, “By that standard none of us – Harry, Hermione, me, everyone – should be in government. Sex is _hardly_ a crime – bloody hell, it’s _good_ for you, bet Bole could use a bit of it to loosen up – and I’d hardly call Justin a _slag_. If he is then I don’t know. We must be slags of the highest order, I don’t think the bloke’s even had more than one partner at a go.”

Which of course makes us wonder if the couple’s close friendship with international Quidditch star Viktor Krum has more to it than meets the eye…

~~

**From:** _W!_  on 14 October 2018.

  **SEXY POLICIES NOT PRIVATES: ministerial candidate Luna Lovegood joins the fray**

Ministerial candidate Luna Lovegood lamented the lack of serious political debate in the current election campaigns today at an event in Hoxheath, Cambridge and claimed that if Bole wanted to have a serious debate about sex and sexuality in ministry policy, then she would be more than happy to engage, but such “pointless mudslinging” and “fruitless speculation” was drawing attention from the well-being of magical Britain.

“Not that,” she said, “Sex isn’t an important part of our lives and I think the Ministry should focus on developing a curriculum for sexual education at Hogwarts – the current curricula is restricted only to the very basics of sexuality and excludes those interested in alternative sexual practices.”

This was followed by a session where she taught the bewildered townsfolk of Hoxheath how to safely tie knots. A taster no doubt, of Ms Lovegood’s hands-on approach to even the most perplexing and abstruse of problems – such as the Rotfang Conspiracy, on which she lectured the crowd at length, while demonstrating how to tie knots on her husband Rolf Scamander.

“I don’t know what Mr Potter sees in her,” said Dave Gudgeon, age 30, “But if he supports her candidacy she can’t be all that bad, can she?”

Meanwhile Auror Potter and _Prophet_ sports commentator, Ginny Weasley, who were also present at this event seemed quite _enthusiastic_ about the spontaneous lesson Ms Lovegood delivered on safe knot tying, so perhaps the Potter-Weasley support for Ms Lovegood’s campaign isn’t _entirely_ political.

~~

“Sex?” stammered Mr Fawley and his glasses fell off in surprise, “N-no? What?” He looked around desperately for Draco to guide him, but Malfoy, unfortunately, was nowhere to be seen.

He was rarely to be seen, thought Francis sadly, particularly when they asked him questions which had nothing to do with farming.

“Mr Fawley, since Mr Bole has brought it up and Ms Lovegood has taken this opportunity to air her views aided by a practical demonstration,” said the sharp-looking fellow from _The Prophet_ , “We wondered if you have any views on whether Mr Finch-Fletchley’s private life has any bearing on his ability to govern – whether sex should be divorced from the political sphere?”

Francis blinked several times as he thought about it, “I think,” he said slowly, “I think –“

“He thinks,” said Draco, appearing mysteriously from nowhere, “That all of this debate distracts from the real issues at hand, such as the current blanket ban on cross-breeding –“

“Yes,” said Francis, suddenly animated, “It’s impossible to create better strains of wheat and rye and other grain products if we can’t experiment to develop the best possible strains. Even the _muggles_ are allowed to do it now without _half_ the hand-wringing our chaps go through every time one so much as _breathes_ the word cross-breeding in their presence – “

Draco stepped back in satisfaction, yet another crisis averted, as Francis Fawley happily prattled away about cross-breeding restrictions to a disappointed press.

~~

**From:** _Quidnunc?_  15 October 2018.

**10,000? MORE LIKE 20,000…**

Our _Ragtime_ columnist checks Mr Bole’s facts… and makes a point.

BY PANSY PARKINSON

About a week ago, Lucian Bole boldly told the press that the average homosexual has ten thousand partners in their lifetime. Most people seem to believe that this is a ridiculous over-estimate and that Mr Bole is talking through his metaphorical hat. Well, Mr Bole _is_ talking through his hat, but I feel moved to correct his facts as a fine upstanding _homosexual_ member of the public. Not only is Mr Bole wildly off the mark, but he has underestimated just how _licentious_ us queers are. Left to ourselves, I can assure you, we’d do much more than steal your government; we’d take your wives as well. Or at least I would. I understand there are people who’d steal your men and to them I say: good luck, but that’s not my thing.

However, don’t take my word for it. Here’s what some of my fellow homosexuals had to say when I asked them to estimate how many partners the average homosexual has in their lifetime:  
  


> Five hundred twenty five thousand and six hundred, one for every minute you missed out as a teen wondering if this was all right and trying to snog boys (sorry Ron!) to figure it all out.
> 
> **\- Lavender Brown, designer, age 38**  
> 
> 
> Look, let’s do the math, all right? Say you go home with five girls and you do this every night of the week – its possible, I know people who do – and you do this from your twenties till your forties when sexual fatigue starts to set in, you get thirty six five hundred. I think it’s a fair estimate, it’s not like the lads are the only ones who can shag around and dump us girls all over the place.
> 
> **\- Lisa Turpin, Unspeakable, age 38**  
> 
> 
> Eighteen thousand. Look mate, it’s the rule of the game – every time you hear someone talk shit about you, you go out and get a new shag.
> 
> **\- Seamus Finnigan, professional pyromaniac** (not my words) **, age 38**  
> 
> 
> Twenty five thousand. One for every galleon Bole pilfered from the Ministry.
> 
> **\- Dean Thomas, artist, age 38  
>    
>  **
> 
> I mean, I’ve already slept with thousands of people, I think a correct estimate is in the hundreds of thousands, which is hundreds of thousands more people than Bole’s getting if Miles is correct.
> 
> **\- Mafalda Prewett, journalist, age 34**

  
I think the message is quite clear, but in case it wasn’t, my fellow queers – bisexuals, pansexuals, polys – all pitched in with their own contributions.  
  


> I don’t know. A lot? Don’t people shag a lot of people? I mean, I’m married to four people, so I guess I’m sort of an outlier – most people seem to marry only one person at a go? Positively primitive.
> 
> **\- Daphne Greengrass, socialite, age 39.**
> 
> Many people. Many many people. As many leaves as you see on this Venomous Tentacula. Um. Fifteen thousand? I think it looks like it has fifteen thousand leaves. It’s a good number, fifteen thousand.
> 
> **\- Neville Longbottom, professor of Herbology, age 38.**
> 
>   
>  Well I mean, if you _want_ me to do the math like Turpin did, I think she’s underestimating, personally – not that I mean to disparage a fellow colleague. I’d extend the age range to include fifty – wix are hardier than muggles so we don’t get sexual fatigue as soon which means… fifty four thousand seven hundred. Clearly they need to institute a maths programme at Hogwarts. Invaluable thing, maths.
> 
> **\- Anthony Goldstein, Unspeakable, age 39.  
>    
>  **
> 
> I think you’re all bloody monastic and need to shag more people. The average bisexual has a million partners in their lifetime which is about the same number of people in this country who refuse to believe we exist. Get with the programme.
> 
> **\- Zacharias Smith, journalist, age 38**

  
And just to be extremely clear, I checked with the person supposedly at the root of this controversy.  
     

> Uh. Four?
> 
> **\- Justin Finch-Fletchley, ministerial candidate, age 38**.

  
If anything, this demonstrates just how _wildly_ off the mark Lucian Bole was with his remarks. Perhaps this isn’t his fault at all; maybe it’s the fault of the lamentably narrow sex-ed the Blishensblokes always turn out with, though for some reason all the other members of the Blishensblokes I know – Miles Bletchley, Marcus Flint, Adrian Pucey – seem to have learnt how to get their facts right, so I’m inclined to discount Lucian’s posh boy background as the reason to blame here. I don’t know about you, dear readers, but I’d be extremely uncomfortable having a man this out of touch as Minister for Magic. If he can’t even get simple facts like these, pardon the expression, _straight_ , exactly _how_ does he plan on running a whole country? So far he hasn’t delivered much by the way of an actual manifesto in any of his public appearances and I know where I’d stick my ballot for him, if I was allowed to.

~~

“Have you seen the papers?” Dennis demanded, storming unceremoniously into the room they’d set up as their centre of operations in Justin and Zacharias’ house on Old Queen’s Street.

Zacharias Smith straightened up hastily, smoothing his hair in a remarkably guilty fashion and knocking several files to the floor in the process. Dennis frowned, at the sight of Justin’s dark curls behind the tall pile, but decided the less he knew the better for all concerned.

“No,” Zacharias straightened his tie and smoothed his robes, “Which one?”

Justin peered over the stack of papers, “What is it now? Haven’t they had enough of everyone’s sex lives?”

Dennis unrolled the copy of the _WME_ he was holding and held it out to Zacharias, “Look.”

“Well no bloody wonder we haven’t seen it, no one _looks_ –“ his voice slowly trailed off as a delighted grin spread over his face, “ _Well_.”

“Well _what_?” demanded Justin, grabbing the magazine from Zacharias.

“ _Patience_ ,” said Zacharias, easily holding it out of reach. He cleared his throat and began to read, “It may come as a surprise to some of our readers that the talented bassist of _The Hoots_ was once part of the infamous Muggleborn Resistance and a dangerous man with a gun. Before we left him to work on his new record coming out next month, we asked him who he’d be voting for in June – patience,” Zacharias dodged out of the way as Justin attempted to grab the magazine again, “ ‘Well it’s obvious innit? Justin’s the only one among them with sense, good bloke, Justin’ well done Kev, that’ll get you the vote from his fanbase, _Salazar’s snakes_ Justin, stop _grabbing_ –“

“Stop beating around the bush, Smith,” said Dennis curtly.

Zacharias rolled his eyes, “Naturally, we asked him to weigh in on Bole’s controversial remarks. He throws his head back and laughs heartily, ‘if Justin’s a slag then Merlin save us all. D’you know we used to call him the Virgin Queen back when we were on the run from Voldemort and his gang? Only ever talked about strategies and such, took the lad two bloody years to figure out Smith was coming on to him; lucky for him Smith’s a persistent and charming wanker’,” Zacharias looked up and beamed, “I _told_ you, _I’m_ the charming one.”

“ _The wanker_ ,” shrieked Justin, finally seizing the magazine from Zacharias.

“I literally _don’t care_ about your charm or your sex lives,” said Dennis in a strained voice, “But it’s a bit hard to do my job _if you keep important information like this from me_.”

 Justin blinked, “I don’t see how –“

Dennis extended a copy of _W!_ and Justin stared in horror at it.

>   **THE VIRGIN QUEEN: _Hoots_ bassist Kevin Entwhistle dishes the dirt on Finch-Fletchley**

By tomorrow morning, Justin was certain, he’d no longer be known by his name and about a hundred thousand people too many would know all the sordid details about how he’d groped Zach that _one time_ at _The Inferno_ – they had both been absolutely _smashed_ , it wasn’t even _fair_ of Kevin to bring it up, the _one time_ he’d abandoned self-control – and he’d no longer be able to show his face in public again. He could see it now. He and Zacharias would have to move to Paris and begin a new life and pretend that none of this had happened. He'd have to learn  _French_ and - 

“You see?” Dennis’ voice slowly ascended in pitch, rudely bringing Justin back to the here and now, “You see what I’m up against?”

“How was I to know that _Kevin_ of all people would decide to spill the beans on my private life?” Justin demanded crossly.

“You _just have_ to, _we can’t make mistakes_ ,” Dennis waved his arms around wildly.

“ _I didn’t even know Kevin was around that night, Merlin’s sake that was fourteen years ago_ –“

“ _I don’t care –“_

“Dennis, lad,” Zacharias gently, but firmly caught him by the shoulders and propelled him towards the door, “Go home. Take a break. Have a nap. Have some tea and biscuits. Calm down.”

“ _I can’t_ –“

Zacharias firmly shut the door in his face and locked it.

“That isn’t very nice,” said Justin, “He means well –“

“He can learn how to control his temper,” Zacharias said loudly, meaningfully tilting his head towards the door.

“ _Piss off Smith_ ,” Dennis’ voice came muffled through the door.

“You know you’re a really unpleasant person sometimes,” Justin observed, “Has anyone told you that?”

“Many times,” he replied serenely, “Many many times. Anyway, you can bet that Mafalda’s on this by now, turning this into a touching story of romance.”

“I don’t see how it’s touching –“

“No, because you were doing most of it that night,” said Zacharias, then added as Justin turned red, “It was very nice.”

“ _I fucking hate Kevin_.”

~~

**From:** _The Wixenomist_ , October 14th – 20th, 2018.

**Muldoon | Shame and Scandal on Diagon Alley**

MAGICAL BRITAIN IS CHANGING, BUT CAN PUREBLOOD BRITAIN KEEP UP?

Ten years ago, a ministerial candidate looking for public sympathy would have easily found plenty of it if he was a pureblood and ‘one of the boys’. Last week’s fiasco with Lucian Bole and the ensuing press battle, now informally dubbed ‘The Battle of the Bulge’ by those of puerile sensibilities, showed just how far magical Britain has come today. But long before he began putting his foot in his mouth, both the press and the public had begun to question his track record. Once upon a time, tales of corruption might have been swept under the carpet and ignored for one of the boys. Not so this time. Both _The Prophet_ and _Quidnunc?_ ran editorials questioning his capacity for governance with the unproven but highly embarrassing weight of his alleged embezzlement casting a long shadow over his campaign. The comments about Mr Finch-Fletchley’s sexuality were only the metaphorical straw that broke the camel’s back.

….

If Mr Bole intends to lead magical Britain in the near future, he must, it seems look to himself first. Running a country requires more of a man than membership in a boys club like Blishensblokes. Mr Bole lays out high standards for everyone, but does he hold himself to these standards? If he does, then we must congratulate both Mr Bole and his currently non-existent future spouse for their fervent dedication to pre-marital celibacy and strict traditional pureblood values which even august families like the Malfoys are abandoning. As a clerk at Gringotts and a bachelor, one might suggest that he lacks the requisite experience to run Britain – both in terms of experience with its recent ups and downs, and in dealing with the whims of a diverse electorate; both areas in which Mr Finch-Fletchley has more than adequate experience. The times have changed; it is now Mr Bole’s turn to show us he too has changed from the man who was ousted from office for embezzling and calling a fellow-worker a blood supremacist slur if he wants the vote.

* * *

Dear cos,

_Salazar’s honking tits._ First a sordid not-quite sex scandal. (Didn’t know Finch-Fletchley was the type to go around snogging people and then feeling them up in public, clearly the man has hidden depths. Parkinson must be delighted at the sordidness of it all.) Now the Rotfang Conspiracy. What next? Old school duelling? _The Sol_ biting itself in the arse?

Yours in sobriety and also Germany,  
Corvus Lestrange

Dear Corv,

Please don’t say such things. Don’t wish such things on us. We are a very nice country trying to do good and they keep asking Francis difficult questions such as “what do you think about dental rot”, “what do you think about Granger-Weasley’s new bill to cross-subsidize healthcare”. Serious stuff like that, I mean _Salazar’s left tit_ , can’t they stick to a script?

Anyway, can you believe, the lad has no views on his teeth rotting out? Incredible. Politics is hard. I don’t know how father did it.

Yours in anguish,  
Draco Malfoy

**II. THE ROTFANG CONSPIRACY**

“I believe I’m a humble man, contrary to what my opponents would have you believe, and as much as I would like to point and say “aha, I told you so” I will restrain myself,” Lucian Bole told the crowd, “These are grave allegations that come not from a ‘biased’ source, but from the Boy Who Lived and his friends no less. If this is true, then this is no joke at all and I, for one, will not stand by idly while they slowly sell Britain by the galleon. This is a great country, or at least it used to be one, before we began to make compromise after compromise in dealing with all kinds of criminal elements – and now this. Well I can tell you this – I intend to fight this and I intend to fight this every step of the way. I want this country to be the very best it can be …”

~~

“ _Dental rot_?” Francis Fawley blinked, bewildered, at the group of reporters swarming him, “What on _earth_?”

“The Rotfang Conspiracy, Mr Fawley,” said the man from _The Prophet_ , “What are your views on it?”

~~

“Merlin’s _balls_ ,” breathed Anthony Goldstein, on the morning of November the fifteenth, breaking the normally stoic silence that Padma, Susan and he usually breakfasted in.

“Hmmm?” said Padma looking up from the paper she was reading, “Are you all right?”

“Incredible,” he said, “ _The Sol_. Listen to this: it seems that we might have been hasty in dismissing Lovegood’s claims that the Rotfang Conspiracy is working to undermine the Ministry from within,” he read, “The latest bill being proposed by Granger-Weasley and supported by ministerial candidate Justin Finch-Fletchley will cut funding to the peacekeeping auror divisions by fifteen per cent. Even more chillingly, this bill will eliminate the health and education tax for all families living on a yearly income of twelve hundred galleons while increasing the per cent charged to families with a yearly income of fifteen thousand galleons and above. The proposed cuts will undoubtedly leave the Ministry and St. Mungo’s both crumbling. It is perhaps unsurprising that Auror Potter has thrown his weight behind Ms Lovegood if this is the change proposed by Granger and Finch-Fletchley,” he put the paper down, “What utter _drivel_. I can't believe people pay to read this nonsense.”

Susan rolled her eyes, “It’s your fault, you _insist_ on reading that trash.”

“We can’t ignore the people we disagree with,” said Padma gently.

“Know your enemy &c &c &c,” said Anthony, once again obscured by the paper, “I wonder what Potter makes of all of this.”

“He’ll probably tell them to shove it,” said Susan and returned her attention to her fried eggs as the other two murmured noises of assent.

~~

**From:** _The Sol_ , 17 November 2018.

**ROTFANG CONSPIRACY CONFIRMED: It’s true, says Auror Potter**

Auror Potter confirmed our worst fears in a speech delivered at an event at Ottery St. Catchpole on Saturday, saying that the Rotfang Conspiracy is the most dangerous and pressing issue facing magical Britain today. He also claimed that the new taxation bill being proposed by Granger-Weasley and supported by Mr Finch-Fletchley would give the Conspiracy a strong foothold in the Ministry of Magic.

“I mean obviously with the new bill we’re going to see more wix with bad teeth, they’ll have to spend time out of office trying to get it fixed and the entire economy will crumble as a result. Clearly this isn’t a tenuous connection at all, I mean you only have to look at Hermione’s parents to know just how real this is.”

Too true, Mr Potter, too true; we have our eye on you, Mrs Granger-Weasley.

~~

“How _could_ you Harry?” said Hermione and if Harry didn’t know her any better he’d go so far as to say she was on the brink of tears.

“Merlin’s sake Hermione, I told you it was a joke! I can’t help it –“

“Bloody bad joke, wa’n’t it?” Ron cut him off, his voice harsh, “If people couldn’t understand it?”

“I can’t believe you’d think I’d do this on purpose –“

“Well what am I supposed to think Harry?” Hermione demanded angrily, “ _Bringing my parents up like that_ –“

“Bloody daft –“ said Ron

“I’m sorry all right?”

“Oh piss off you two,” said Ginny, sailing in and taking up a pugnacious stance at her husband’s side, “It’s not his bloody fault if the fuckers down in _The Sol_ can’t take a joke.”

“Politics isn’t a joke,” said Hermione coldly, “I put _hours_ into that bill and _not_ so that some _stupid_ has-been who thinks he’s the best thing since baked bread could turn into a punchline in a _joke_.”

“Well I’m sorry for not being a self-righteous know-it-all snot whose life is regimented and perfect and has no sense of humour,” snapped Harry.

“Come on Ron,” Hermione said, in a voice that could freeze the Sahara, “We have _work_ to do.”

“Good riddance to bloody rubbish,” said Ginny as Ron snorted and shook his head, dragged out the door by Hermione.

~~

**From:** _The Daily Prophet_ , 19 November 2018

**BAD TASTE: ministerial candidate Finch-Fletchley responds to Auror Potter’s comments**

In a speech delivered to an enthusiastic crowd at Diagon Alley today, ministerial candidate Justin Finch-Fletchley has decried Auror Potter’s comments on the Rotfang Conspiracy and Mrs Granger-Weasley’s proposed tax restructuring bill calling them “offensive” and “derogatory” towards those who had spent hours carefully crafting a bill he claims will create “a fairer society, where the rich subsidize as much of the services they can for the poorer sections of society.”

“I have the greatest respect for Auror Potter,” he said, “But there is a time and place for jokes and discussing the proposed tax bill was not one of those places. Dragging Mr and Mrs Granger, who have spent their entire professional careers in the NHS, _fighting_ dental rot, not causing it, was in utter bad taste. I am disappointed; I can only hope Auror Potter had excellent reasons for choosing to make those statements. There is nothing humorous about economic injustice, or in making fun of men and women who have dedicated their lives to public service when they could have very well made a lucrative career for themselves by opening private practices. Jokes like these only serve to obscure the real purpose of the bill: to alleviate tax pressure on low-earning families to ensure they can enjoy a comfortable standard of living and _not_ , as _The Sol_ believes, to undermine the Ministry of Magic. If we really wanted to do so, I can assure you, we’d find something more efficient than dental rot to do the job for us.”

Auror Potter’s comments are said to have caused a severe rift between the Golden Trio. Mrs Granger-Weasley, in an exclusive interview with _The Prophet_ called Auror Potter’s comments “hurtful” to both her and her parents and said she would wait for him to make the first moves towards reconciliation.

Auror Potter could not be reached for comment at this time.

~~

**From:** _The Sol_ , 19 November 2018.

**BAD TASTE, OR TASTES BAD?**

[picture of Justin Finch-Fletchley making a face while eating an ice-cream outside _Florean Fortescue’s_ ]

Finch-Fletchley takes some time off moralizing to have an ice cream with his family. It’s no wonder he finds this whole business in bad taste – he’s been eating the wrong kind of ice cream! Now if only someone had treated him to a real cheeky forty, he’d be much less uptight about the whole affair…

~~

Francis Fawley stared and then continued to stare some more. He simply couldn’t believe his ears. Dental rot. They wanted to talk about _dental_ rot. Of all the things they could think of – tariffs, protectionist European trade policies, cross-breeding bans, _taxes_ – they wanted to talk about _dental rot_.

It made no sense to him.

It made even less sense that they seemed to believe that this was all part of a grand conspiracy to topple the Ministry of Magic. At the rate things were going the Europeans were going to do it first and it wouldn’t be through dental rot but through their protectionist trade policies which made competition on the European market distinctly unfair. This was basic common sense. Even Finch-Fletchley’s bill made more sense (of course the poor needed money, he wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of having to pay their hospital bills through his taxes in addition to his own bills, but then he earned 30,000 galleons a year in pin money – the vast Fawley fortune excluded – so he supposed he could be generous) than their nonsensical prattling.

“No,” he said firmly, “Stop this. This is rubbish.”

The waiting members of the press, ceased their fire alarmed by the expression of utmost concentration and seriousness on Francis Fawley’s face.

“I don’t know where you get such rubbish ideas,” he scolded them, “First of all, there hasn’t been a single case of dental rot in magical Britain since 1954. Secondly, if they wanted to take over the Ministry they have _guns_ – Finch-Fletchley wouldn’t be running for Minister if he wanted to overthrow magical Britain, all he’d have to do is throw a bomb here. Thirdly, both he and Hermione occupy some of the most powerful positions in government today so why in Merlin’s name would he want to topple the government? Lastly, we have far more pressing issues at hand and if anything is going to run this country into the ground, it’s its inability to keep up with the times.”

They stared at him, surprised, only the scratching sound of Pansy’s Quick Quotes Quill breaking the silence.

“Doesn’t _anyone_ here think?” he demanded, “I’m here to talk about serious issues, not waste my time discussing _dental rot_. Now if anyone has any questions about the proposed farming subsidy?”

~~

“Huh,” said Anthony, breaking the silence at the breakfast table for the _second_ time within a week. At this rate, thought Susan Bones, she’d have to move out.

“Turns out Fawley is actually good for something,” he said, from behind his newspaper.

“Hmm?” said Padma.

“Believes we need to keep up with the times and scolded everyone into embarrassed silence over the Conspiracy. Unfortunately all of this has to do with farming.”

“You can’t have everything,” said Padma reasonably.

“No,” he mused, “I suppose you can take a boy out of the country but you can’t take the country out of him.”

“At any rate, this means Potter and Weasley can stop their fighting. D’you know,” Susan sat up, suddenly animated with indignation, “They’ve been using aurors to send _messages_ to each other instead of _communicating_ like normal human beings?”

“Didn’t they do that in fourth year?” Anthony inquired.

“Mm,” said Padma.

“Well there you are,” he said, “Toadstools don’t change their spots &c &c.”

“Piss off,” Susan replied.

* * *

Corv,

I hate you. I loathe you, I detest you. Whatever you and Nott are doing – stop it. Make it stop.

Yours,  
Draco.

**III. CROWN VS CLOWN**

Breakfast at Christmastime _chez_ Finch-Fletchley – when all the various members of the clan assembled to celebrate the holidays – was always a peaceful and silent affair, the various Finch-Fletchley offspring having been rigorously drilled by their _paterfamilias_ , from a tender age, in the importance of maintaining silence at the breakfast table at all times. He had done this so successfully, that even in his absence, the Finch-Fletchley children maintained their silence at the breakfast table; no matter what the practices might have been in their own homes.

They were reading their mail – another cherished breakfast time activity, even though now it involved everyone staring into their phones – when Mrs Finch-Fletchley broke the silence with a scream, making Vincent Finch-Fletchley drop his phone into his porridge with a start.

“Bloody hell mum,” he said irritably, attempting to rectify the damage with his kerchief, “It’s –“

“Justin,” she said faintly, “He’s in _trouble_.”

“ _Justin_?” asked the youngest of the Finch-Fletchleys, Phyllis, “He’s like the person least likely to get into trouble I know.”

“Well,” said Lydia, “He did get _kidnapped_ –“

“Held _hostage_ ,” Vincent corrected her, “There’s a difference.”

“Oh hurry up mum and do tell us what he’s done this time,” said Marjory, as the other three bickered over whether or not Justin Finch-Fletchley had been kidnapped or held hostage by vampires in the summer of 2015.

“A duel,” Sylvia Finch-Fletchley in a tear-filled voice, “He’s fighting a _duel_.”

The four siblings stared at her incredulously.

“With their, you know, _wands_?” asked Phyllis, “Right?”

“ _Swords_ ,” wailed Sylvia, “They’re using _swords_.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” said Lydia.

“What,” said Marjory, her voice flat.

“ _Wicked_ ,” breathed Phyllis.

Vincent simply began to laugh helplessly.

“It’s not _funny_ or ‘ _wicked_ ’,” cried Mrs Finch-Fletchley, “He’s going to get himself _killed_. Oh,” she paused as a thought occurred to her, “I have to tell your father.”

“ _No_ ,” the Finch-Fletchley siblings chorused in protest.

“What father doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Vincent added, in an attempt to reason with his distraught mother.

The look she directed at him made him shrink in his chair.

“I’ll write to him,” she said, disappearing in search of her laptop, “He must know –“

“Oh well no wonder,” said Marjory, who’d seized the letter the moment her mother had let go of it, “It’s _Zach_ who wrote.”

“ – be the death of me,” Sylvia Finch-Fletchley continued, “My poor heart, my nerves –“

“How _unfortunate_ ,” drawled Vincent slowly, “Pen needs to see me _this_ weekend about custody.”

“ – Should really check on John and the kids –“

“ – Last minute complications with the case  –“

“I _loathe_ you all,” said Phyllis, as the three of them looked expectantly at her.

“Giles will be coming down on Monday anyway,” said Lydia.

“Thanks Phil,” said Vincent, “You’re a real hero.”

Phyllis Finch-Fletchley gestured rudely at him.

~~

**From:** _W!_  9 December  2018.

**THE CROWN VERSUS CLOWN: the Virgin Queen and the Lown Clown duel it out with swords**

Well he’s really gone and done it this time, lads. Not content with having to back down hastily from his endorsement of the Rotfang Conspiracy when Mrs Lovegood-Scamander caustically commented that the Conspiracy referred specifically to people of Bole’s ilk and _not_ Mr Finch-Fletchley or Mrs Granger-Weasley, or having been taken to task for his ridiculous assertion that the average homosexual has ten thousand partners in their life time, Lucian Bole has now agreed to fight a duel with Mr Finch-Fletchley after insulting him in public at the Malfoy Yule Charity Ball.

“It was _amazing_ ,” says an inside source, who wishes to remain anonymous, “One minute, there’s Bole calling Finch-Fletchley a slag who likes getting buggered  up the arse by the press, the next minute Finch-Fletchley’s flung his glass of champagne in Bole’s face and is shouting ‘pistols or swords’ at him. I’ve never had so much fun in my entire life.”

Neither have we, nonny. It’s certainly turned what looked to be a very boring election into a thrilling and exciting race. We can only hope that it gets even better from here, though we think it extremely unlikely that our Lown Clown Bole could possibly find anything worse to say after this fiasco.

~~

“Ha,” said Giles derisively, “We did it all the time down at the Bullingdon.”

Sylvia Finch-Fletchley glared at her oldest son, “I’d hoped,” she said, carving her beef with unnecessary force, “That you had more sense at Oxford than to run about fighting duels.”

“He’s lying mum,” said Phyllis, and then stuck her tongue out at him when he tried to protest, “He’s just jealous of Justin because Justin’s actually getting somewhere in politics despite being ‘a fucking communist’.”

“Language dear,” said Mrs Finch-Fletchley

“I’m only repeating what he said –“

“Anyway,” said Giles loudly, “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“ _Giles_ _Alistair Finch-Fletchley_ your brother could be _killed_ , they’re not like us –“

“They’re barbarians,” Phyllis finished her sentence for her, “Yes mum, it’s not like you’ve told us this a _million_ times before.”

“I’m sure it’ll all work out fine,” said Jane Finch-Fletchley, soothingly, before this could devolve fully into one of the infamous Finch-Fletchley shouting matches, “Justin’s a very smart boy.”

Giles scoffed, but did not otherwise disagree with his wife.

“I just don’t think it’s right,” said Sylvia, “And it’s so _antiquated_ –“

Phyllis rolled her eyes.

~~

**From** _W!_ 23 December 2018.

**THE CLOWN SMASHES HIS CROWN**

The thrilling saga of Crown versus Clown came to a close in the early hours of the morning today, as Justin Finch-Fletchley and Lucian Bole battled it out with swords on the lawns at Hyde Park before sunrise. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Mr Finch-Fletchley, who fought with grit and determination worthy of Helga Hufflepuff herself, easily felled Mr Bole with a skillfully executed double that left Bole with a not inconsiderable flesh wound, though we believe it is his _ego_ which sustained the larger bruising in this duel.

Luckily for Mr Bole, he has all of Christmas to nurse his wounds and make a comeback, hopefully this time with more sense and less outraged sensibility.

~~

“ _Is he all right_?” demanded Sylvia Finch-Fletchley, from the steps of the Finch-Fletchley mansion.

Sir Lawrence Finch-Fletchley said nothing, but it was clear from his pursed lips and the way he turned away wordlessly to lock the car that he was Not Pleased.

“Are we planning the funeral now?” Vincent inquired, lounging in the doorway as his father came up the steps, “Don’t tell us everything all at once.”

“The less said about this entire business the better,” said Sir Lawrence shortly.

Vincent raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Phyllis as he moved out of his father's way.

“But _is he all right_?” Mrs Finch-Fletchley grasped at her husband’s elbow.

 “I almost wish I’d alerted the police,” he replied irritably, “And they’d all been arrested. Incredibly, he’s alive and well and in the best of health. He’s a damn fool.”

“Giles says he fought a duel with Charles Connington at the Bullingdon once,” Phyllis piped up.

“Giles is _also_ a fool,” said Lawrence Finch-Fletchley damningly.

“Ooh,” said Phyllis, high spirits refusing to be dampened by her father’s lack of enthusiasm, “Giles will be so _mad_ –“

 “But is he coming down for Christmas?” Sylvia asked him, “Lawrence I need to know how much to _cook_.”

“A _duel_ ,” said Lawrence Finch-Fletchley, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’ve sent him to Wales. I don’t want to see him again. I don’t want to see any of you again. I’m going to my room.”

And with that, he swept out of the room, with his wife trailing behind him, demanding to know just what had transpired.

“It must have been Zach,” mused Phyllis, “It’s the only explanation.”

“It’s always Zach,” said Vincent with conviction, “Are you going to tell Giles dad thinks he’s a fool?”

* * *

Dear Malfoy,

I almost wish I’d taken you up on your offer to come back to England. Little did I know that my right to my seat on the Wizengamot was going to come under fire _from one of my own fucking kind_.

Honestly, what in Salazar’s _name_ is Bole thinking of? Is he purposely trying to shoot us all in the feet? Is he actually the Rotfang Conspiracy? Please make sure you use your puppet wisely to refute all this nonsense.

Yours,  
Teddy

Dear Nott,

We’re all just as confused/bewildered/astounded as you are. Francis even worked himself into a rage and ticked everyone off on his own. Though I’d like to mention that he’s not my puppet he’s doing this entirely of his own free will.

Yours,  
Draco.

****

**IV. MUSICAL CHAIRS**

“Withengamot reform?” hissed Graham Montague, “ _Withengamot reform_? You never thaid anything about Withengamot reform when you thaid you were running for Minithter!”

“It wasn’t important at the time,” Lucian replied coldly, “It’s about time others got a chance at running the country.”

“Oh tho that’th how it ith, ith it?” Graham said angrily, “Mark my wordth, you’ll regret thaying thith, you’ll regret every bloody word.”

~~

**From:** _The Sol_ , 10 March 2018.

**MUSICAL CHAIRS: the _real_ Rotfang Conspiracy unveiled**  
BY KATIE MONTAGUE

It’s not often that we, at _The Sol_ , issue public apologies to our readers for the stances we’ve taken in the past. However, even the most seasoned journalist can be deceived by the wiliest scoundrel and alas, dear readers, so it was with us down at _The Sol_. We apologize unreservedly for this lapse in judgement. In the interest of transparency, I will tell you just what prompted this change of heart on our part before you hear all kinds of twisted lies from unreliable sources.

When Lucian Bole first announced his decision to run for Minister for Magic, we were thrilled. Here at last was a man with a real vision for Britain, who promised to stand up to those crooks in the ICW and the collective strength of those verminous vampire cartels. Unlike the rest of the establishment, he was not a Ministry man – sure he’d worked for them once, but he’d left, disillusioned, at the direction in which they were headed. He was not wrong. Since his leaving, the Ministry has compromised on the rights of wix throughout the country in an attempt to placate outlaws and terrorists looking to take all they can get, forcing us to accept the fact that our streets will never be ours again, overrun as they are by all kinds of vermin and filth.

Perhaps it was this desperation which clouded our judgement and blinded us from seeing Mr Bole’s fatal flaw. Not so anymore. Last night, at Caerphilly, Mr Bole exposed himself for what he truly is. A wolf in lion’s clothing. All that talk about the Rotfang Conspiracy, aimed at his rivals, only served to conceal his _own_ selfish desires as evinced when he brought up the issue of Wizengamot reform yesterday in Caerphilly.

If he had, like Mr Finch-Fletchley, decided in favour of reform which allowed for proposed new members to be voted in by Ministry workers, perhaps we would not find it necessary to drop our support of his candidacy. However, Mr Bole wants to go further. He wants to introduce not only a voting system, but completely abolish the hereditary seats on the Wizengamot and allow members to be voted in at random.

Mr Bole’s agenda here is clear. For a long time the Bole family has been angling for a seat on the Wizengamot, yet despite the number of seats that were freed in the wake of the second wizarding war, they were unable to find any sort of foothold in the Wizengamot. Deprived of opportunities to win political power for themselves, they have now couched their selfish aims in the flowery language of “reform” and “progress”. All that this will achieve is to cast out those families who have had a longstanding acquaintance and understanding of local and international politics – who have carried themselves with grace and refinement which Mr Bole has failed to do throughout these elections, and have distinguished themselves greatly in service to their country.

If Mr Bole has his way, not only will the Ministry of Magic collapse, it will grow as rotten as it did when Cornelius Fudge was in control; with the most powerful interests in the Ministry voting in their lackeys and seizing control of the Wizengamot. Undoubtedly, this is fine in the current political milieu when we have men and women of fine moral calibre such as Auror Potter and Mrs Marchbanks and Mrs Longbottom holding seats in the Wizengamot. However, such reform must always be conducted with a view to the future and in the future, we will not always have such men and women of fine and upstanding natures seated in the Wizengamot. Only think how easy it would have been for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to have seized control of the Wizengamot if not for the seats held by the influential neutral families – Abbotts, Fawleys, Greengrasses, Smiths, Macmillans, Flints and so on and so forth. We must not pretend that such an eventuality will never arise again in the future – we will not always have The Boy Who Lived to protect us, we must protect ourselves.

So, dear readers, I encourage you to question who really wins from this proposed reform of the Wizengamot: the ordinary wix, or the numerous vested interests that seek to ruin this country from inside?

Personally I, the editor-in-chief of this estimable newspaper, have no doubts in my mind just _who_ benefits from this new game of musical chairs and in my opinion, it’s an enemy far more dangerous than the Rotfang Conspiracy.

~~

**From:** _The Wixenomist_ , 18th – 24th March 2018.

**Muldoon | A game of musical chairs**

THE WIZENGAMOT NEEDS TO BE REFORMED, BUT LUCIAN BOLE IS NOT THE MAN FOR THE JOB.

THE crowd at Pen Rhionydd is restless and baleful as Mr Bole takes the stage. A traditionally conservative leaning constituency, Pen Rhionydd has a history of voting for safe pureblood candidates, usually backed by the leading families of the village. Winning their support should be a piece of cake for Mr Bole, except the baleful mutterings swell into heckling as he starts to speak ( _Oi, you posh fuck, think it’s funny taking our seats from us_?) and it is clear that no matter what he says on the stage, the people of Pen Rhionydd will not be tamed. _He claims he’s got our interests at heart_ , says Rhys Llewellyn, one of South Wales’ many miners, _but he’s just another one of those fancy London coves in it for what he can get, least that Finch-Fletchley’s got one of our blokes to speak for us_. Judging by the way the crowd’s response to Bole’s speech, it is clear that Mr Llewellyn speaks for the people of Pen Rhionydd.

Only a month ago, Mr Bole’s star was in ascendance and it seemed he could do no wrong. While Mr Finch-Fletchley struggled with allegations about his involvement in the Rotfang Conspiracy and the ruthless mockery of the tabloid press – the photograph of him eating an ice cream has been reproduced so many times that the editor of this magazine has been heard to observe that he is now more familiar with the insides of Mr Finch-Fletchley’s buccal cavity than he is with his economic policies – Lucian Bole was happily explaining his economic and social policies to a press which lapped up every single word. It took one speech at Caerphilly to undo months of hard work, following his humiliating defeat in his duel against Mr Finch-Fletchley, and for the press to turn rabid and savage him.

So where exactly did it all go wrong?

…

There is no doubt in the mind of your columnist that the Wizengamot needs to be reformed. Whether Mr Bole is the right man for this task is a different matter entirely. So far he has shown only discomfort when confronted with the facts of magical Britain’s changing political landscape, speaking earnestly of a long bygone past that could not conceivably be achieved except with a considerable amount of bloodshed. With such willful blindness to the new trends in British politics, it seems unlikely that Mr Bole would be able to hold his own in the cutthroat world of Ministry politics where even the most principled of men and women are ruthless and have perfected the art of doublespeak. Perhaps as some of the tabloids suggest this is not a blind decision at all and Mr Bole does have an ulterior motive in pushing this reform. After all, it is highly unlikely that men like Rhys Llewellyn will ever be able to work their way into the Wizengamot, or that London’s control over Ministry politics will be broken by this move. Worse still, in this new game of musical chairs, it is almost certain that those with greater influence will only ameliorate their influence and that those with the deepest pockets will conveniently find seats vacant for them. It all begs the question, who will be sitting where, after the fat lady sings?

~~

“I’m sorry Bole,” said Miles, “But you never said anything about Wizengamot reform when you decided to run for Minister.”

“I see,” said Lucian, nastily, “I see how it is. Just can’t bear the thought of us icky Boles getting our dirty tradesmen little fingers all over your precious Wizengamot.”

Miles raised his eyebrows, “Hardly, considering that my pater gave his seat up after the second wizarding war because he was tired of all the political games being played, but be my guest Bole. Continue to believe that it’s everyone else out to get you – that everyone has a petty vendetta that _must_ be worked out on you,” he leaned forward in his seat, “Let me tell you mate, one Slytherin to another, one Blishensbloke to another, you’re playing a damn foolish game and you’ve lost yourself the _entire_ pureblood vote because you refuse to open your eyes and play it _subtle_. Let me make this very clear: as long as you make it out to be an act of willful persecution just because you’re a “trading” family – ridiculous, given that the Montgomerys are _far_ more new money than your lot – you won’t get anywhere near the top.”

“You disgust me,” said Bole.

“Good,” Miles replied, “Maybe you’ll leave me alone now and let me get on with this week’s letters to the editor – all about your idiot proposition by the way.”

Lucian Bole slammed out of Miles Bletchley’s office, leaving Miles rubbing his temples in pain.

“Well that was something,” said Zacharias, coming in through the door that joined their offices together, “Think you’ve got rid of him permanently?”

Miles poured himself a drink from his not-so-secret stash of vodka, precisely to help him deal with Bole’s various issues, “I hope so,” he said, “But I don’t think so.”

Zacharias sighed, “About sums up this bloody campaign.”

Miles nodded despondently and went back to sifting through the various Letters to the Editor that had been sent in that week.

* * *

“Well,” said Draco.

Francis Fawley swallowed nervously, “Is it normal?” he asked Draco, “To feel this nervous?”

“We don’t feel nervous,” Draco replied, “We’re better than that.”

“Right,” said Francis.

“Would you like a glass of Scotch?” said Draco, “While they’re all voting?”

“Yes please,” replied Francis.

“Good, good,” said Draco, and poured Francis a drink.

“Cheers,” he said and raised the bottle in toast to Francis Fawley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read about Justin & Lucian's duel over [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3749092). S/o to [EssayOfThoughts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts) for supplying the quote: "who will be sitting where, after the fat lady sings?". A cheeky forty is [EssayOfThoughts'](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts)shoutout to cheeky nandos (developed at my request). Blishensblokes is a reference to the infamous Bullingdon Club.
> 
> Lucian Bole's comments about the average homosexual having 10000 partners in a life time is based on [former UKIP leader Lord Monckton's comment that gay men have 20,000 partners in their lives](http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/nigel-farage-condemns-former-ukip-deputy-moncktons-comments-that-gay-men-have-20000-sexual-partners-in-their-miserable-lives-9890191.html). The press' ruthless examination of Justin's sex life was accidentally modelled on the [Daily Mail's bizarre decision to scrutinize Ed Miliband's romantic history and make it a scandal.](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3032823/Red-Ed-s-tangled-love-life-Miliband-s-wife-tells-fury-meeting-unattached-Ed-learn-seeing-hostess-just-one-number-relationships-women-clique.html) They failed.


	3. In which the votes are cast

In a flat on St James’ Street, Lucian Bole turned the glass of whiskey around in his hand and contemplated the empty armchairs – with a glass of whiskey in front of each – on either side of him as he began the long hours of waiting as the votes came in for the tally. Marcus Flint had mumbled something about his father wanting him home in Scotland for the voting, which he gathered was some strange Scottish ritual, what with Ernie Macmillan and Euan Abercrombie also going home to vote. Miles Bletchley had said something about a date and promised to look in later on that night, which, he assumed, meant that Miles would turn up the next morning along with the newspapers and make some ghastly joke about whatever the results were.

The more he thought about it, the clearer it seemed that Marcus and Miles had fallen prey to the vile new stream of thought which pervaded the current political milieu.

There was only one option left, if he was honest with himself.

Lucian Bole, age forty-one, seated all by himself in a flat on St James’ Street, solemnly downed the two glasses of whiskey placed before the two empty armchairs.

~~

In Wiltshire, a very different kind of atmosphere filled the unofficial headquarters of the Fawley campaign, aided no doubt, by the fastidiousness of the Malfoy House Elves in supplying their master with whiskey and brandy from the Malfoy wine cellars when he demanded it. If Francis Fawley had not been so drunk he might have wondered how Astoria Greengrass could countenance such drunkenness, but as things were, Francis Fawley was haphazardly strewn over a sofa in the library, trying to focus on Draco Malfoy’s drunk rantings.

“And another thing,” slurred Draco, “If you become Minister, I don’t want any of these hoo-hahs coming to my Yule Ball. Can you imagine? I’m _reduced_ to a voyeuristic _sport_ for the unwashed masses –“ he broke off and took a swig from his bottle of brandy.

“No hoo-hahs,” promised Francis, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“ – And another thing, no jokes, no jokes about me, I mean I love ‘storia but she doesn’t take me seriously   –“

~~

 The Lovegood-Scamander family slumbered peacefully.

~~

Mafalda Prewett watched in growing exasperation as Zacharias Smith paced up and down the length of the room for what must have been the millionth time. In an hour or so, the last of the owls would have come in from the Orkneys and Hebrides and a group of Unspeakables and goblins would begin to feed the ballots into the magical sorting device the goblins usually used on magical currency. Until the first results came in, it seemed, Zacharias Smith was determined to wear the Persian rug thin. Mafalda was fairly certain Justin would have had something to say about it, if they hadn’t successfully hustled him out of the room earlier on by playing on his parental instincts. Better that he take his fretting out on Ruth and Michal. Ruth was far more capable at handling her fathers than any of the other members of this campaign. Already at six, Ruth ruled the Smith-Finch-Fletchley household with an iron rod; in a few years, Mafalda was comfortably sure of this, her god-daughter would be a _terror_. And well if she showed no signs of fully becoming a terror to the Smith-Finch-Fletchley household, surely no one would blame Mafalda if she gently nudged her god-daughter towards the straight-and-narrow.

It was only fitting, after all that Zacharias and Justin had put her through during this election campaign.

She glanced at the bright green snakeskin watch and sighed. In a few minutes, Justin would return and then they would have not one fretting Smith-Finch-Fletchley on their hands but _two_.

“Sit _down_ Zach,” Wayne rolled his eyes at her.

“I tried sitting down,” Zacharias pointed out, “And then you said –“

“Anthony,” said Mafalda, in a strangled voice, “ _I need to talk to you_.”

~~

**Approval ratings for each of the candidates, on 5th June 2019**

** **

 

* * *

**LOCH END, SCOTLAND**

“Well Marcus,” said Brutus Flint, “Since you spend all your time down in London now, why don’t you tell us who we should be voting for?”

Marcus looked from his father – a man, who in his opinion, would always be worth ten Lucian Boles even though they had both left office in disgrace, Bole for embezzlement, his father for collaborating with Death Eaters – to Horatius Slughorn – a thin dour man, the exact opposite of his brother – and then turned his attention to an invisible piece of fluff on the sleeves of his robe.

“As a Ministry man,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I would vote for Francis Fawley, _however_ ,” he paused, “one Scotsman to another, a very reliable source assures me that Finch-Fletchley is the man to vote for.”

“Reliable source,” Horatius said skeptically.

“A fellow Scot,” replied Marcus Flint.

“To Finch-Fletchley then, I suppose,” said Brutus Flint.

~~

“Zacharias,” said Ernie, taking him by the elbow, “We need to talk.”

“No we don’t,” replied Zacharias, trying to pull away, “You need to go to Scotland. Like we planned.”

Ernie Macmillan, unmoved by Smith’s protests, steered him into their campaign headquarters, away from the crowd outside, “Justin can handle them, he’s very good at socializing now,” he said, “I have questions for you.”

He placed a file on the table and opened it, flipping through the filed papers until he found what he was looking for.

“I talked to Gareth the other day,” he said, sliding the paper across the table to Zacharias and then crossing his arms, “Asked him to translate this for me. I thought it was unusual, after all, for Justin to have his Welsh manifesto written in Welsh.”

“Ah,” Zacharias glanced at the door and began to edge away, “I can explain.”

“Really.”

“Yes,” he licked his lips and then relaxed, as his fingers brushed against the flask of cognac that had become a permanent fixture in their headquarter, “You see, it’s all very simple,” he slowly eased it open.

“Stop beating around the bush, Smith.”

“Well,” said Zacharias and then without warning, flung the contents of the flask in Ernie’s face and bolted for the door.

Unfortunately for him, Ernie was faster, and if not taller, certainly stockier and better built and righteously angered as only a Hufflepuff could be righteously angered. Zacharias found himself slammed against the wall by a sodden and furious Ernie, wand pointed at his throat.

“Explain yourself,” said Ernie, “ _Welsh devolution_?”

Zacharias’ chin tilted upwards, as he tried to wriggle free, “Better than Scottish devolution.”

Ernie’s eyes glittered dangerously, “I should tell Justin.”

“You wouldn’t,” Zacharias protested weakly.

If anything, Ernie’s eyes glittered even _more_ dangerously, “Wouldn’t I?”

“Please don’t?” he begged Ernie, “He doesn’t. Need. To know.”

Ernie released Zacharias and cast a drying spell on his robes, “I didn’t think you were the sort to lie to him.”

“It’s not a lie,” Zacharias licked his lips nervously, “It’s just a tactful omission.”

“A lie,” replied Ernie, “I really _should_ tell him.”

“Or,” said Zacharias, clutching desperately at Ernie’s robes, “I could write in a section under Scotland.”

“ _Full_ devolution,” said Ernie.

“I can’t write _that_ ,” said Zacharias indignantly, “I haven’t even asked for _full devolution_ for _us_.”

Ernie shrugged, “Should have thought of that before you wrote it in, shouldn’t you?”

“Why don’t we compromise?”

“I fail to see _why_ –“

“I mean,” said Zacharias, slowly, “There _is_ that photo of you, French Riviera, 2002 with uh, with a sheep –“

“ – what about the _pony_ –“

The two men glared at each other.

“I want you to remember,” said Ernie, holding his hand out,“That it was _I_ who backed down and proved myself the bigger, better man and agreed to a compromise – as long as you match us _precisely_ with what you put down for Wales.”

“This is blackmail,” said Zacharias, grudgingly shaking Ernie’s hand in agreement.

“ _Payback_ ,” Ernie corrected him, “You shouldn’t have called us sheep-shaggers.”

~~

**Per cent of the Scottish vote, counted at 12 AM, 7th June 2019:**

** **

* * *

**HOXHEATH, CAMBRIDGE**

“Who’re you voting for?” Dave Gudgeon asked Charles Montgomery, as they waited in line to hand their ballots in at the Post Office.

Charles ruffled the back of his hair, “There’s not much choice is there?” he asked, keeping his voice low, “I mean there’s really only one you know, _moderate_ candidate to vote for – I mean, two extremists, it’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“It’s shabby,” said Gudgeon, nodding in agreement, “I wouldn’t be voting for Fawley if we had another candidate.”

“It’s a shame that Fawley’s our best chance,” Charles replied, “He’s a bit of an idiot.”

“Merlin save England,” Gudgeon said sadly.

~~

“Mr Finch-Fletchley,” said Max Montgomery, “While my fellow wix and I appreciate your, er, concern for a fairer society, we cannot help but wonder whether your concern for fairness extends to the MEEP,” several other grey-haired wizards nodded wisely at this, “And it’s unfair restrictions on British exports to the European magical community – Mr Bole takes a very _strict_ approach to the MEEP and it’s growing encroachment on British sovereignty.”

Justin smiled, ignoring Zach’s tightening grip on his elbow, “I’m also told that Mr Bole believes that breaking with the MEEP is the  best solution for this country – personally I believe that part of building a fairer society involves _negotiating_ with the MEEP for a fairer deal for magical Britain and not aiming our wands at them at the slightest drop of a hat – “

Zacharias sighed internally at Justin’s earnest devotion to a Fair Deal and a Fair Society.

~~

**Per cent of the Cambridge vote, counted at 1 AM, 7th June 2019**

** **

* * *

**COKEWORTH, WEST MIDLANDS**

“Who’d you vote for then?” an impressively tall man, with an equally impressive mane of white hair demanded of the much younger man coming out of the Post Office.

“None of your business Smethers,” he snapped, “Will you please move your walking stick?”

“All business is my business around here,” said Smethers peaceably.

“Come on then Plunkett, be a good lad and tell us how you voted,” said a red-faced wizard with a grizzled beard, “Don’t blame the lad though,” he told Smethers, “All a bunch of toffs this time round. Give me good old Leach, a good Midlands lad he was.”

Matthew Plunkett drew himself up to his full height, “I voted for Fawley,” he said, “Now let me leave.”

Smethers moved his cane from the entrance and shook his head as Plunkett departed, “They don’t make ‘em like they used to,” he said, “In my day, we learnt how to pick them good seeds from the bad. Fawley boy,” he shook his head despondently and spat, “Head full of cotton.”

“Aye,” said the red-faced wizard, “Meself, I voted for Finch-Fletchley. That Creevey lad seems a good sort.”

“Ah well,” said Smethers sadly, “They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

~~

 “All this talk of a fair society is very well,” Pike said loudly, “But some People talk of fair societies and mean London and others talk of fair societies and don’t mean anything at all, so which one are you?”

“Well,” said Justin reasonably, “London’s _hardly_ all of Britain now, is it?”

The pub burst into raucous laughter and hearty cries of _Pike!_ and _lad!_ But to his credit, Pike simply burst into a broad grin and punched Justin’s shoulder in good humour.

~~

**Per cent of the Midlands vote, counted at 2 AM, 7th June 2019**

* * *

**HEXWICK, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE**

“My heart bleeds red,” Dennis read, on one of the many banners hanging everywhere, as he cycled through the tiny village of Hexwick on the way to Newcastle, “Incredible.”

The village pub was full too and the group of wizards standing outside cheered as he cycled past – _Justin, Justin, Justin_.

“Fucking incredible,” Dennis muttered. _If only everywhere else was as simple_.

~~

“Look it’s really simple, all right,” said Zacharias quietly, “You don’t open your mouth. At all. You let Dennis do all the talking, all right?”

“It’s _my_ campaign,” said Justin petulantly.

“This is a _pub_ ,” Zacharias replied in a furious undertone, “There’s going to be a bunch of piss drunk wizards in there, spoiling for a fight – “

“He’s right,” Dennis replied in a low voice, “It’s best if you stay mum.”

Justin sighed and shrugged, “Fine, let’s go in.”

The pub fell silent as they entered and the hairs on the back of Justin’s neck rose as they made their way to the bar, every single eye in the room on them. There were many things that the villagers of Hexwick were; cosmopolitan was _not_ one of them. The very thought that a _muggleborn_ and even worse, a _resistance_ fighter, could now make a run for Minister for Magic seemed offensive to them, though when pressed they inevitably fell back on the old but familiar argument – that lad Bole, he’s one of the boys. It was an argument Justin was swiftly beginning to recognize was shorthand for ‘you’re not one of us and never will be’.

Undaunted, he smiled at the pub-owner, even if he let Zacharias order his drink from him in his strongest Welsh brogue – Justin had to hurriedly pretend a sneeze at that and then thankfully hid his face behind his pint. By now, the silence had eased into a quiet rumbling and Justin wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, they would make it through this without any mishaps.

And then he heard _it_. Slicing across the room, across the murmured conversations and the underlying tensions of the room.

 _Mudblood_.

Loud and cutting and determined.

Zacharias gripped his elbow in warning, Dennis’ mouth became a thin, harsh line but he continued drinking.

Justin – Justin put his drink down on the counter and unbuttoned his sleeves.

“ _Justin_ ,” said Zacharias warningly.

Justin shook his head, “I’ll be fine.”

He slid off the stool he was sitting on and went over to the table, where a group of wizards in their early forties were seated.

 “Get up,” said Justin, still rolling up the sleeves of his robes.

A well-built wizard, easily taller than Justin – taller than _Zacharias_ – stood up and crossed his arms, a smirk on his face.

“Go on,” said Justin, “If you have something to say, say it to my face.”

“You know,” said Dennis quietly, so only Zacharias could hear him, “He’s very handy with his fives, Justin.”

“ _Mudblood_ ,” said the well-built wizard, leering down at Justin, “I said it once, I’ll say it again – _mudblood_ ,” he turned to his friends who cheered him on.

Justin’s fist flew out and caught wizard squarely on his jaw and he stumbled backwards, crashed into a chair and fell over.

“ _Say it again!_ ” yelled Justin, picking the man up by his robes, “ _Say it again you fuck!_ ”

Justin Finch-Fletchley, in a pub full of well-built wizards all spoiling for a fight, proceeded to headbutt the man in his face and let him fall back down.

“ _Anyone else have anything to say_?” he demanded belligerently, fists clenched and ready to fight, as the wizard fell to the ground with a crash.

“Well fuck,” said Zacharias and hastily unfastened his cuffs.

In a few moments, the pub room was nothing more than fists and spells flying at random – Zacharias and Dennis on one side, Zacharias wielding a chair with scientific precision while Dennis dealt out punches and spells in equal measure, and a motley assortment of the villagers of Hexwick on the other, armed with an assortment of cutlery, glasses and of course, their wands. And in the middle of it all, Justin, _furious_ and shouting and throwing punches left and right.

“ _I didn’t fight in a fucking war_ ,” he was screaming, “ _I didn’t see my friends fucking die so that some fucking blood-supremacist could trot out a tired old insult because he can’t fucking fight his way out of an inconsequential backwater_.”

They left, twenty minutes later, once Justin had punched nearly everyone in the room at _least_ once.

“Feeling any better?” Zacharias asked him, as he straightened his tie.

“It was very cathartic,” said Dennis, smoothing his hair, “Can we do this more often at HQ?”

“Fucking _bastards_ ,” said Justin.

Zacharias and Dennis grinned at each other behind Justin’s back as Justin proceeded to begin on a new rant about blood-supremacists.

Meanwhile, back at the pub, as they got to the business of fixing the broken glasses and furniture, the silence of humiliation hung heavy over the twenty odd wizards who all had black-eyes or broken noses. To have lost to three wizards was bad enough; to have lost to _two mudbloods_ and a deserter was mortifying.

“I like a lad like that,” the pub-owner mused aloud, “Takes no shite.”

“But he’s –“

“Yeh,” he told the wizard who’d started the fight earlier, “And for all your fine blood, he still sent ye spinning didn’t he? What a _fight_.”

“You wouldn’t catch Bole –“

“Nah man,” piped up one of the other wizards, “Reckon Bole would run rather than fight. Me,” he said, “I like a fighting man.”

There were grunts and murmurs of assent.

“Yer a fool Jim,” the pub-owner told the wizard, but not unkindly, “Listen to older and wiser heads. Vote for Finch-Fletchley. Better a fightin’ mudblood toff than a coward.”

~~

**Per cent of the North England vote, counted at 3:30 AM, 7th June 2019**

** **

* * *

**PEN RHIONYDD, WALES**

“I hate your family,” said Justin with feeling, “Especially your godfather.”

“I hate them too,” said Zacharias, but did not add aloud: _probably more than you_.

~~

“I fail to see why there should be any confusion about this,” said David Smith, a tall and haughty man with an aquiline nose that would have done any Roman patriarch proud, “Unless you happen to think that either Bole or Fawley are _suitable_ to the not inconsiderable task of running the country.”

“Ah yes David, always so reasonable,” his sister Judith replied, “Never a hint of filthy politics about you, the epitome of neutrality,” she sneered, “But at least you’re an improvement on our father.”

Miriam laid her hand soothingly on her sister’s arm, “You must understand David, none of us are entirely happy with Justin.”

“If we’re honest,” said his brother-in-law, Rupert Selwyn, “Justin doesn’t belong here at all.”

David smiled sardonically, “In my experience it is those who do not belong who are better placed to make necessary even,” he paused, “ _inconvenient_  decisions for the good of this country. They have no, um, interests they must bow down to, after all, besides the truly lofty and noble ones.”

The Selwyn-Smith family turned varying shades of red, chastised by David Smith’s veiled insult. Adam Smith’s face remained poker straight, but his eyes danced merrily as he glanced at his father.

“I think it settles it, don’t you?” he said, “Besides, Zach took so much trouble to push for greater power for the Welsh council.”

David Smith’s lips twitched, ever so slightly, “Surely _sister_ , even _you_ would not demur at the idea of us Welsh being given the very power you and our dear aunt Delilah have been fighting for all these years, simply because it was _Justin_ who proposed to devolve power to Wales.”

“On the contrary, _brother_ ,” replied Judith, “I merely urge _caution_ –“

“Then I see no problem,” her brother answered, “Unless you wish to continue this debate for a further four hours? I _assume_ you are satisfied with having considered this problem since,” he glanced exaggeratedly at his watch, “a quarter past eleven today morning.”

“I am quite satisfied,” she answered stiffly.

“Rupert?” he turned to his brother-in-law.

“Cymru am byth,” he said, “Finch-Fletchley it is.”

“Excellent,” said David, “Now, presumably, we can let Pen Rhionydd get down to the business of voting before polling ends.”

~~

**Per cent of the Welsh Vote, counted at 4 AM, 7th June 2019**

* * *

**OTTERY ST. CATCHPOLE, EXMOOR**

“ _Fighting_ because you wouldn’t support the same candidates,” Molly scolded them, “Are you _grown-ups_ or five year olds? No don’t answer that,” she pointed threateningly at George who raised his hands, laughing, “Ignoring each other! Insulting families in public! What next? Hair-pulling? Biting? I expected better of you. All of you,” she paused, arms akimbo, “Well? Go on then. _Apologize_ to each other.”

Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione, cowed by Molly Weasley’s scolding mumbled apologies to each other.

“Much better,” said Molly, “Now, if everyone has their ballots all filled out we can all go vote for Justin.”

~~

“When I began this campaign,” said Luna, “I wanted to show just how constrained political debate in this country has become – all our candidates are Ministry affiliated in one way or the other – and open up a space for wix who wanted to vote outside the box. I pushed for magical creature rights because magical creatures have always been my passion. Both these aims, I think, have been accomplished in some form or the other,” she paused and surveyed the crowd, “However, when I ran, I did not expect that some of my dearest and nearest friends would end up falling out over my campaign. But then the Rotfang Conspiracy has deep roots in the Ministry and our society and so perhaps I should not be surprised at all that my friends fell victim to its lies.”

She held her hand out and Rolf took it. Luna smiled at him and then turned to the crowd, “There are others better placed to fight the rot inside the Ministry, campaign for magical creature rights and combat the Wrackspurt plague infecting our country, in particular, our newspapers – though I hope _The Quibbler_ will never fall prey to it. With that in mind, and with the hope that my friends will find their way to reconciliation following this, I am withdrawing my candidacy for this election and fully back Justin in his campaign for Minister. Thank you for your support –“

~~

**Per cent of the Western Country vote, counted at 5 AM, 7th June 2019**

* * *

**BALLYCASTLE, NORTHERN IRELAND**

“ _You promised them devolution_?” Seamus yelled as Justin dodged behind Dennis.

“I didn’t know!” he protested, “Zach and Ernie must have added it in when I wasn’t looking!”

“Well it’s got your bloody signature on it,” said Seamus, “This is wrong, this is bullshit, this is _fucking unfair_.”

“It’s not full devolution –“

“I don’t fucking care! Here’s me, working my arse off with the lads, going up and down the length of Northern Ireland getting votes for you and then I find that a coupler sheep-shaggers have gone and written in clauses for _fucking devolution_ when we’ve been fighting for it for _decades_.”

“It was very bad of them – “

“’S more than fucking bad it’s fucking _shite_.”

“Why don’t you,” said Dennis, turning and pushing Justin forwards, “two talk it out and teach the two of them a lesson, hmmm? Better for everyone involved.”

~~

“What really?” Finlay Quigley demanded of Seamus, “ _Full_ devolution?”

“We’ve talked it over with Granger and she and Justin are drafting up a bill,” said Seamus, “ _Full devolution_. Kick those fucking Burkes out as well.”

“Fuck me,” breathed Quigley, “Fucking hell Finnigan.” He took a swig of his beer and then climbed unsteadily on to a nearby table.

“Oi everyone,” he shouted, “Listen, on the 6th when we vote, we all fucking vote Finch-Fletchley yeah? Finch-Fletchley for _full devolution_. No more Burkes, none of that rubbish. And if you don’t vote Finch-Fletchley then I’ll stick my bat so hard up your arses you won’t be able to see straight for ten days, all right?”

~~

**Per cent of the Northern Ireland vote, counted at 11:45 PM, 6th June 2019**

* * *

**ANDREDSWEALD, SUSSEX**

It was an uphill task, thought Justin, trying to campaign on Fawley’s home soil. Or for that matter, the entire farming belt. For all that Daphne and Millicent were thick pals of Pansy, the Greengrasses and Bulstrodes had been unwilling to voice their support (or lack of support) outright, but were all very hospitable all the same. Pansy Parkinson had cast her hands up in despair and told him outright that her father was far beyond her influence, at least where the Parkinson greenhouses and horticultural export business was concerned. Even the Longbottoms and Abbotts had been hesitant to throw their weight fully behind him and it had only been the persistent lobbying and threatening on the part of Hannah and Neville that had forced them to publicly express their support for Justin’s campaign.

Only the Yaxley sisters had thrown their weight behind him unhesitatingly and Justin suspected that it had more to do with the ongoing feud with the Fawleys over the Yaxley lands and little to do with any merit on his part.

Banners with the words “Vote Fawley” “Fawley is our man” and “Fawley for Minister” hung everywhere in the tiny village of Andredsweald. Someone had even tried to sell him a pin in support of Francis Fawley. It was all very disheartening, Justin thought.

Despite his unprepossessing nature, Francis Fawley had clearly won the hearts of the farming belt by incessantly talking farming at anyone who was willing to listen to him.

~~

“It’s such a pity,” said Vivianna Fawley filling out her ballot, “Francis is a dear but he’s so wooly-headed.”

Marcus sighed, “But at least he listens to us, it’s about time someone started to pay attention to the huge farms lying empty –“

“Yes daddy,” Vivianna rolled her eyes at her mother as her father launched into another one of his tirades about all the land lying fallow because of the land disputes following the second war.

~~

**Per cent of the Sussex vote, counted at 6 AM, 7th June 2019**

* * *

**BILLINGSGATE, LONDON**

“You know you don’t need to do this,” Zacharias said anxiously, for the fiftieth time that morning, “Dean and I can go and you and Dennis can stay here –“

“I’ll be _fine_ , stop worrying so,” said Justin, “I need to do this, okay? You can wait here with Vincent and worry yourselves to death while being cool and ironic about it and when I’m done you can both write to mum and tell her just how nerve-wracking the whole deal was okay?”

He kissed Zacharias before he could protest anymore and disappeared into  _The Mermaid's Fin_  along with Lorcan D’Eath.

~~

“Madame Bathory,” said Justin, impeccably polite, “Sanguini.”

“Justin,” said _La Comtessa_ , smiling unpleasantly, “We meet again. How long has it been? Three years? Four?”

“Five,” Justin replied dryly, thankful for Lorcan’s hand on his elbow, “Though I hope this meeting will proceed much smoother than our last one.”

Her smile widened, “I don’t see why not, unless you have some, er, weapons hidden where I cannot see,” she glanced over her shoulder and then back at Justin.

Justin smiled weakly at the pointed dig at Jonathan Hesselius, bounty hunter, and they sat down to eat.

“You must understand,” he said guardedly, as Sanguini and Lorcan discussed Lorcan’s upcoming album, “that Mr Hesselius and I are not personally acquainted.”

“Oh no,” she said, “But you were both going to be Old Etonians and it does look very suspicious to some of our younger, less cautious vampires.”

“I assure you,” he said as truthfully as he could, “That I will do everything within my ability to stop Mr Hesselius.”

“That’s just it I’m afraid,” said Erszebet, the smile suddenly gone from her face, “Believe me Justin, no one is happier than I that finally, after six centuries, I can now have a say in who will run the country – limited though that say may be – but your best is not enough, not when one of your wizards is allowed to roam free, killing us at will and _receiving bounties for it_ or oh, when “reasonable suspicion of dark activity” is enough to keep us from being employed.”

“Ms Granger-Weasley’s new bill –“

“To hell with your bills,” she said and grabbed his wrist, “We are tired and we are _hungry_.”

It was no accident, Justin thought, that she smiled over-wide – a snarl rather than a smile – her fangs just visible between those scarlet lips.

“Now,” she said, “If you know what you’re ordering?”

~~

“My cousins,” said Erszebet Bathory, majestic in wine-red robes, “I know this is a hard choice for all of us; there is no one, truly, who will ever side with us. I truly believe, however, that they are just as afraid of us as we are of them. Five years ago we showed them how dangerous we could be, how easily we could bring their country to a standstill – the ease with which we could take their Ministry and hold it against them. They still fear us; I have smelt it and undoubtedly, so have you.

“I know many of you think Mr Finch-Fletchley weak and I am _disappointed_. Or is it really so hard to remember the seventeen year old who traded pints of his blood in return for guns and grenades? Or indeed, if we look back only a few years – a man whom Igor Ichor (may his soul rest in peace) once considered a friend and a brave man? I do not think we should so lightly cast him aside or call him useless.

“I do not propose that we do not continue to struggle through other channels – that would be, I think, foolish. But my friends, we have been given an opportunity to show them for the first time, that we can be _forgiving_ , that we are not _only_ dangerous. My lord, if you are ready?”

Lord Rupert Ruthven (more famously known as _the Skeleton Count_ ) cleared his throat, “We will begin voting now. Those voting for Mr Finch-Fletchley  will vote “aye”, those against the motion to vote for Mr Finch-Fletchley will vote “nay”. If you do not wish to vote ‘Aye’ or ‘Nay’ you may sign and note that you are abstaining from the vote. The signatures will be counted by the clerk and will be used to represent the council’s vote on June 6th,” he removed his wig and stood up, “I would not normally add this, but these are extraordinary circumstances. Vote wisely my cousins, our fight has not ended but that is no reason to act rashly now.”

~~

**The Vampire Council Vote, counted at 5 PM, June 5th 2019**

**Tally:**

**Ayes:** 94

 **Nays:** 34

 **Abstain:** 15

 **Motion:** Carried. The council votes in favour of Mr Finch-Fletchley.

* * *

**DIAGON ALLEY, LONDON**

“Goblins of Britain – my friends, my brothers,” said the head goblin at Gringotts, “Five years ago we closed our doors. We showed them that we too have power, that our rebellions are more than just mere footnotes in their history books – jokes to be cast aside. We showed them that without violence, we could bring the whole nation to its knees. The nation starved; they begged for mercy. We showed them instead what we could achieve if we took up arms – if we marched, along with our brethren, on their seats of power. We taught them to _fear_ us.

“Once, we were the butt of every joke of theirs, the villains in their morality tales. Now they only dare whisper our names in fear and their eyes dart sideways when they come into Gringotts.

“My friends, we have accomplished much – it is no mean thing to convince an entire nation, in the span of a few months, that we are a force to be reckoned with. But this is not the end; this is only the beginning of a long struggle.

“They will tell us that we have enough. We do not have enough, do not be led for a moment to believe that we have enough. Not until all wrongs are made right; not until centuries of hurt have been amended, will it be enough.

“When you cast your votes today, remember this: this is only one stepping stone on the long road to freedom and we will not rest until we are truly free; not even when Mr Finch-Fletchley passes this bill through the Wizengamot. We _will_ fight and we will fight until once more, we hold wands in our hands and we are _free_ and we are _equal_.”

~~

“This election marks a historical moment, not only in our country, but across the world,” said Justin, “For the first time in history, we, wix, will go to the polls with our magical brethren – house elves, goblins, vampires and merfolk – and cast our votes for who we think should lead our country into the next decade. Many of you are worried about this, some of you are afraid. Change is never easy.”

He looked down at his notes, up at Zacharias encouragingly mouthing the next sentence and then folded his notes away.

“My husband will be having a fit,” Justin joked, as he slid his notes into the pockets of his robes, “But easy platitudes and politico-speak, while appealing, is not what I really want to say to you today.”

“Some of you are afraid and if I’m honest, so am I. You’ve heard stories about the things goblins and vampires can do – I’ve seen it firsthand,” his voice grew harsh, “Five years ago, after all, I was inside the Ministry, with a gun being held to my head, by a vampire who would go on to be a dear friend of mine, I might add! But I don’t want to talk about five years ago, because we all know what happened then. I want us to go all the way back to 1997, when magical Britain was torn apart by a civil war.

“You see, back then, if the Muggleborn Resistance wanted weapons to stand against the Death Eaters we had two choices: to steal whatever we could from our parents, or find them on the black market. Wands weren’t an option; no one believed war would _really_ come again and on the battlefield against a Death Eater? Sixth year DADA is absolute _rubbish_.  We had no money either, so the muggle black markets were out of the question.

“Now you might think, ‘well then, you should have hid, or gone on the run instead of going to the vampires’ and maybe you’re right. Maybe I should have done that, maybe we should have all quietly waited for the Boy Who Lived to stand up for us and fought only at his bidding. We did not. We _did_ go to the vampires and we _did_ give them blood in return for weapons; it was all we had.”

Justin paused and licked his lips, “D’you know,” he said, “I don’t regret it. I don’t know how many of you have been down by the docks at Billingsgate. I’ve hidden in sewers which smelt better. You’ve seen vampires with weapons; fierce and dangerous and every bit the fables and spectres from your childhood nightmares. I’ve seen the other side. I've seen vampires with empty eyes and hollow sunken cheeks, unable to afford the blood the Ministry provides through St Mungo’s. I’ve seen vampires take to Fairy Dust, because the Dust, at least, blinded them to the gnawing hunger – to the pitiful circumstances of their lives. I’ve seen them at their weakest and most fragile, _broken on the back of this society_.

“Some of you will decide not to vote for me after I say this and to you I say, this is a free country - vote as you will. When I talk of a Fair Society for Britain, I really do mean a Fair Society for Britain – one that is fair not only for purebloods, or for all wizarding kind, but for our magical brethren as well. You might think me idealistic or naïve to believe that I could possibly achieve this, but I intend to support them as we move towards an _equal_ society – where we _all_ get to participate as citizens in this country. You can choose to be part of this new, fair society and vote for me, or you can choose to continue in a society which hurts those most vulnerable and unable to fend for themselves and vote for one of the other candidates. Thank you.”

~~

**The Goblin vote, counted at 7:15 AM, 7th June 2019**

* * *

Mafalda Prewett woke with a start to the sound of someone banging loudly on their door. She groaned and opened her eyes and then winced in pain at the light filtering in through the curtains.

“Bloody Zach,” she muttered, “Bloody Zach and bloody Finch-Fletchley and fuck this migraine.”

The banging grew louder and more persistent.

Sighing, she got up and left the room, everyone still sound asleep after last night’s stress induced drunken revelries.

“Oi you _fucks_ ,” she heard Miles yelling through the heavy oak door, “Wake up!”

She flung the door open, “There’s no need to shout,” she snapped, “Some of us have _headaches_ you know.”

“Drink lots eh?” he winked broadly at her.

“If you call listening to Zach and Justin shagging each other with wild abandon because they forgot to use silencing spells the equivalent of downing a bottle of firewhiskey at one go, then yes, I drank lots. Two bottles of firewhiskey, perhaps more. What are you so excited about anyway?” she demanded crossly.

"I assume all the shagging was the result of some devious plan of yours," said Miles, easily evading her question, "Which is why you're in a temper."

"It was a  _very good idea_ , it worked splendidly, Zach looked like a train hit him the moment Justin walked into the room and he literally dragged Justin off to ravish him, we just didn't realize  _how_ randy Zach gets when you give him Silphium mixed with _Khnum On_ ," she replied, irritably, "Now _tell me_  what's got you all chirpy at half past seven in the fucking morning."

“Just got back from the Ministry,” he said, deciding wisely to let the matter of Zacharias and Justin drop, “They finished counting the votes.”

“And?” she asked him, perking up immediately, “Miles _hurry up_ , stop wasting time.”

“Don’t you think we should wake Justin?” he asked her innocently.

“ _Miles._ ”

He rolled his eyes, “Lucian, surprisingly, won exactly one per cent of the vote – which goes to show, you can’t trust those damn opinion polls –“

“ _Miiiiiiiileeeeeeeessss.”_

He continued, unrelenting, “Fawley won far more than I expected, I suppose it was the farming vote and Justin’s improvised speech last week that gave Fawley a last minute surge; you know Zach really needs to teach Justin how to be politick about what he says.”

“Miles Algernon Bletchley,” shrieked Mafalda, “So help me Salazar, if you don’t tell me immediately I will shove my wand so _hard_ up your arse that you’ll see _stars_.”

“All right, all right,” he replied, laughing, “Don’t get your wand all in a twist. Justin,” he paused, his eyes dancing merrily, “Swept through Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales, cleared out the Midlands and North-Eastern England, got the vampire council vote, the house elf council vote and _every single bloody goblin vote in this country_ and won the election by _eighty per cent of the vote_.”

“ _Oh my Salazar_ ,” she breathed, “We actually did it, _we actually won, we won, we won_ ,” she flung her arms around Miles’ neck and screeched happily, “ _We won_.”

“What?” said a sleepy and mostly undressed Zacharias Smith, slouching into the hallway.

Mafalda disentangled herself from Miles and flung herself at him, “ _We won!_ ” she cried.

And then she burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Payback, as Ernie calls it, is a reference to [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3631389) I wrote.
> 
> MEEP stands for Magical Europe for Economic Prosperity and is the wixen version of the EU. In case you wanted to know [this is its national anthem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpcUxwpOQ_A).
> 
> Cymru am byth translates to Wales Forever and is the motto of Wales, at least, according to Wikipedia.
> 
> Jonathan Hesselius is a muggleborn dark creature bounty hunter I wrote about [over here](http://tobermoriansass.tumblr.com/post/112103578030/thepostmodernpottercompendium-jonathan).
> 
> This fic is sort of a sequel to my other major WIP [Chaos Is A Butterfly](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1575593?view_full_work=true) which traces the path of change taken in the wizarding world, following the second wizarding war, as well as an AU version of the first and second wizarding wars.
> 
> The Inimitable Livers is a creation of [EssayOfThoughts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts) as is Khnum On, a nerve restoration pill which increases sensitivity to touch.
> 
> The percentages represented here are _not actual percentages_ they are merely conjectural and meant to add to the verisimilitude. I _do_ have a rough estimate of seats to wix population that I'm working from, but these percentages do not reflect them. Please don't lecture me about how my maths is inaccurate, I know it is. :)
> 
> If you have any other questions about things in here, or if you just want to yell at me or tell me something about this hit me up in the comments.

**Author's Note:**

> Borgin and Burke's Peerage is the invention of [EssayOfThoughts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts).


End file.
